


lay your head where it burns

by flybbfly



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 13:45:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2311715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flybbfly/pseuds/flybbfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's just—joining a fight club doesn't seem quite your <i>style</i>," Combeferre says.</p><p>Written for <a href="http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/14280.html?thread=13872072#t13872072">this prompt</a> from makinghugospin @ lj.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lay your head where it burns

**Author's Note:**

> I sort of stuck with the prompt but I may have taken some, er, liberties. This story kind of got away from me … it was supposed to be 2000 words of h/c with possibly some light porn and instead it's this.
> 
> Trigger warnings for bdsm play (light choking, spanking, bondage) + mentions of abuse. Typical Grantaire-related alcohol + self esteem issues. Lots of use of the word “slut,” exclusively between two people who are having sex with each other and are into it. Slightly dated pop culture references because I started this a couple of months ago.
> 
> I'd also like to clarify: This story is by no means the norm. Domestic abuse is a serious issue, and typically if you see its warning signs you should not behave the way my characters behave. Chances are if one person is getting drunk (or not drinking at all) and hurting another person, it isn't accidental. 
> 
> Also, I know this isn't particularly up to par, especially the end, but I'm just so stressed out and tired so I'm just going to post it now and edit it later. A lot of it is sloppily done but whatever, I'll fix it eventually.
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr (wilsherejack.tumblr.com)!

It's Combeferre who first notices, or at least, it's Combeferre who first says something. 

"It's just—joining a fight club doesn't seem quite your _style_ ," Combeferre says. 

"What?" Enjolras says, still gaping at him.

"Ever since you and Grantaire started dating—"

"We aren't dating," Enjolras interrupts. "More like—consciously coupling."

"Was that a pop culture reference?"

"I know. It's working wonders."

"Well, that's actually what I wanted to ask you about."

"My conscious coupling?"

"The wonders Grantaire's been working." Combeferre reaches for him, then seemingly thinks better of it, frowns back at Enjolras. "Ever since you started seeing each other, you've been covered in bruises."

"Oh," Enjolras says, and it's so absurd he almost laughs. "No, I just walked into a door." When Combeferre looks skeptical, he amends it: "Okay, fine, so Grantaire accidentally hit me with the door coming in last night." 

"Last week you looked like you'd been in a fight. That's from walking into the door?"

Enjolras thinks about it. "Actually, I think that's when I was trying to help Grantaire get down the stairs and he lost balance and took us both down with him."

Combeferre doesn't look convinced. "So then why didn't you tell us?"

"You didn't need to know."

"If you're turning up injured all the time, we need to know why. If you're getting into anything dangerous, or—"

"You're right," Enjolras interrupts. "I'm sorry. The next time Grantaire drunkenly slams my head into the sink—"

"He's done that?"

"Well, not yet, considering I'm still alive and decidedly unconcussed, but—"

"Enjolras, if your life is threatened, you need to tell us." Combeferre's voice is low, urgent. "Not just for you. Remember. A lot of people are relying on you, and that means you need to be _alive_."

"That's sweet," Enjolras says. "But he's genuinely doing it by accident. I've been trying to get him to drink less—I think it's working."

"Right, that's why you keep turning up black and blue to meetings."

"Actually, yes—he doesn't drink enough to just pass out anywhere, so I have to help him around, and that's when he's at his least balanced."

"Right," Combeferre says. "Well—please know that if you need help, we're here."

“Thanks,” Enjolras says, thought he's more than a little annoyed. “Let's get the meeting started, then, yeah?”

* * *

It seems to have died out with Combeferre's confrontation, so Enjolras doesn't bring it up with Grantaire. He's a little more careful when Grantaire's been drinking, but he can't help it if sometimes when they're holding hands Grantaire falls and takes him down with him and rolls so that Enjolras's face bangs against one of the coffee table's legs. 

That's why, during the next meeting, where Enjolras is planning on discussing the issues with lobbying in America and how they can be affected by peaceful versus violent versus financial protest, there's a bright purple scar blooming across his right cheekbone and he's limping a bit on his right leg, which twisted painfully under Grantaire when they fell.

He's talking about the ethical necessity of prison divestment—“It's here that liberty and equality go most literally hand in hand,” he insists—when he notices the way the ABC are looking at him and Grantaire, and he's halfway into talking about protesting institutions that invest and how they should go about it when Grantaire interrupts him.

“So we're just supposed to protest every--” He pauses to take a long pull from his flask, and Enjolras gives him four entire seconds before opening his mouth to protest, but then Grantaire continues the sentence. “--institution? If they invest in prisons, or fossil fuels, or Israel, or test on--” He does it again, continuing his thought only when he sees that Enjolras is about to protest. “--animals—what are we supposed to do? Plant our own vegetables? Sew our own clothes?” 

He takes a final long pull, and doesn't try to stop Enjolras from arguing about the point of boycotts and the strength of a voice if it is loud enough and united enough until Enjolras mentions the need for drastic reforms to the agriculture industry.

“As if Americans are ever going to go for that,” Grantaire says. He's refilled his flask once already, but now he's at the bar again, Eponine funneling the cheapest whiskey they sell into the silver container. “Americans can't stop guzzling corn syrup for long enough to hear their doctors tell them they have diabetes. You think they'll put up with you taking away KFC? Anyway, it's not like that's not a class issue, too—you can afford fresh vegetables, but not everyone--”

“That's enough, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, referring mostly to the whiskey but also to Grantaire's incessant arguing.

“Fuck you,” Grantaire says, half-playfully, or at least playfully enough that Enjolras knows Grantaire won't hold it against him later, but the rest of the Amis don't see it that way.

“Grantaire,” Joly says warningly, and “Maybe he's right, R,” Courfeyrac says, and “That's not cool, Grantaire,” Bossuet says.

Grantaire looks faintly surprised, but he holds his hands up in surrender. “Fine,” he says. “I get it. You're all about this particular cause. I'll stop hating, but I'll keep—if you don't mind—sipping haterade.” He winks at Enjolras, and Courfeyrac actually has to keep Bahorel from springing angrily up in his seat.

Enjolras is, to say the least, perplexed.

* * *

Grantaire drinks more than usual that night, or at least he drinks more than what has become usual since he and Enjolras have started openly expressing affection toward one another, but still not as much as when he passed out from too much alcohol every night. This combined with the dinner Enjolras made him eat earlier basically means he throws up, barely making it to the toilet before he retches and the sounds of liquefied caesar salad and very cheap whiskey hitting porcelain reach Enjolras's ears.

Enjolras follows him into the toilet. “R?” he says, and is surprised at how much his voice echoes in Grantaire's fairly small bathroom.

“I'm sorry,” Grantaire mumbles from where he's leaning his head against the toilet seat.

“Your mess. Your apartment. I'm not cleaning it,” Enjolras says, filling a glass of water at the sink and handing it to Grantaire, who takes a hesitant sip.

“Sorry for interrupting you.”

Enjolras has known Grantaire for longer than he cares to think about, and Grantaire has never, _never_ shown any kind of remorse for endlessly heckling Enjolras. In fact, sometimes he's even shown pride, when he's debated Enjolras into changing his mind, or when he's changed the minds of enough people at the Musain.

“Don't be,” Enjolras says. “You brought up a good point—you're right, it's unrealistic to expect people to protest _everything_ \--”

“I just want to know why they were protesting _me_ ,” Grantaire says, voice surprisingly clear. 

Enjolras doesn't answer. “Come to bed?”

“Thought _I_ was supposed to invite _you_ into my bed.”

“I invited myself.”

“Of course you did.”

Grantaire follows Enjolras into his room, trips at some point and falls forward, but he regains balance quickly enough that he doesn't further injure Enjolras. He climbs onto his bed, and Enjolras climbs in next to him, but the moment he gets within a few inches of him Grantaire starts to shake violently.

“Do you need the bin?”

Grantaire shakes his head, but his body is still trembling when Enjolras tries to slip an arm around his shoulders and bring him close, and then, to Enjolras' bewilderment, Grantaire starts crying. He's never seen Grantaire cry before, not like this, not this body-raking sobbing that leaves Enjolras sort of terrified.

“Grantaire. Grantaire, please talk to me.”

“What did I  _do?_ ”

Enjolras can't stop himself from sighing, but he tugs Grantaire closer, so that Grantaire is almost falling into his lap. “Shh—you didn't do anything. Come here.”

He combs his fingers through Grantaire's hair until Grantaire gives a great snort and drifts at last into sleep. Enjolras is not so lucky—he sits with Grantaire half-lying in his lap for what seems like hours, and blinks himself awake as the sun rises without ever noticing himself doze off. 

* * *

Grantaire stumbles into his kitchen eventually, boxers hanging low on his hips and the heel of his palm massaging his temples. He fills a glass of water from the tap and chugs it before noticing Enjolras is there.

“Morning,” he says, sounding hungover and half-asleep and hoarse but otherwise fine.

“We need to talk about last night.”

“Come on, Enjolras, I just woke up and I'm hungover and I haven't showered--”

“We need to talk about last night.”

“Look, I'm sorry your dick didn't cure my alcoholism, all right? You know I don't usually let myself get that bad, but it was a rough day, and--”

“That's what I wanted to talk about, actually,” Enjolras interrupts.

“Your dick?” Grantaire's face immediately changes, assumes the look of a starved imp. He all but fucking _sidles_ up to Enjolras, wraps a hand around the back of his neck, and Enjolras is about to let Grantaire distract him when he gets a noseful of Grantaire's post-pass-out breath.

“Eurgh, gross,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire looks more than a little hurt. “No, I mean—just brush your teeth first, Christ.”

“Not like you to use the Lord's name in vain like that.”

“Please. We all know the Lord's Karl Marx.”

“Was that a self-aware joke?”

“Only in that Karl Marx would have hated to be referred to as a lord of any kind—brush your teeth, Grantaire, but then we need to talk.”

Enjolras racks a hand through his hair several times as Grantaire brushes his teeth. He's started making coffee in Grantaire's tiny, fairly shitty kitchen—it has the feel of the rest of Grantaire's apartment, a place barely lived in but when it is lived in, it's lived in unhappily; the kitchen, like the rest of the apartment, is decked out in what look like Soviet-era wallpaper and carpeting, most of it so old that it's stained with mildew and water damage and at least three years' worth of Grantaire's charcoal and paint deposits. There's something completely Grantaire about it, though, which should make Enjolras feel comfortable but instead sort of breaks his heart—by the time Grantaire gets back from the bathroom, looking suitably awake and sitting up on the counter next to the coffee maker.

“So,” Enjolras says. He momentarily debates trying to soften the blow, but there's no point in delaying the inevitable, so he just comes right out with it. “Our friends think you're abusive.”

“Is this an intervention?” Grantaire says, frowning. “I already told you: your dick isn't going to cure my alcoholism, at least not immediately. I probably need to go to rehab for that.”

It's Enjolras's turn to call Grantaire self-aware, and when he does Grantaire shrugs. 

“No point in denying the obvious. Why I never hid my crush on you.”

“That's what we're calling it? A crush?” Enjolras grins, and this time when Grantaire reaches for him he acquiesces, kisses him back. Grantaire tastes clean, which isn't something Grantaire tastes like often, and Enjolras finds that he likes it. He moves closer to Grantaire so that he's standing in between Grantaire's dangling legs and deepens the kiss. 

“I'm sorry I ruined last night,” Grantaire says softly. “I'm willing to make it up to you.”

His open mouth drops to Enjolras's neck and stays there for a moment, teeth scraping against the sensitive skin there before he starts dropping feather light kisses back up Enjolras's throat to meet his mouth again; but Enjolras pulls away.

“Stop it,” he says. “This isn't about alcohol. At least, not exactly.”

“What's it about, then?”

“Our friends think you're abusive. Of me.”

A series of emotions pass over Grantaire's face, and he looks hurt all over again, but then he says, “Guess that's why Courfeyrac asked me how kinky you are in bed.” 

The bitterness in his voice is justifiable, but it wounds Enjolras nonetheless.

“Courfeyrac asked you that?”

“Yeah. A couple of weeks ago.” 

Grantaire frowns and looks at Enjolras, at the too-slowly fading bruise along the side of his cheekbone. 

“Did I do that?”

“What?”

“The—your cheek.”

“You slipped and I was trying to hold you up but I banged my face against the headboard.”

“In your apartment?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“Last week.”

Grantaire's expression darkens. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“That it was me.”

“What?”

“Bruising you.”

“I thought you knew,” Enjolras says blankly.

“If I knew,” Grantaire says slowly, “that I was doing damage to that _perfect fucking face of yours_ , I probably would have stopped drinking and started sedating myself every night.”

“Grantaire--”

“I thought you'd started boxing or something. I always had shitty bruises when I first started, and it--”

“Why wouldn't I tell you that I'd started boxing?”

“Sometimes you don't tell me weird stuff like that. Like when you were into one of your students but you couldn't act on it, or--”

“You knew about that?”

“You're not great at hiding things. You just like to hide them.”

“What else do you know about that I don't know you know about?”

“You took an art crit class, right? But you never said anything about it. But it was obvious you had, so--”

“I was going to one of the art history professors' lectures every week, yeah. How did you--”

Grantaire shrugs, and then looks suddenly devastated. “So I _am_ hurting you.”

“Not on purpose!”

“But still--” His face darkens more still. “And all our friends think I'm--”

“Well,” Enjolras says. “Well, yes.”

“But I would never—you told them I would never, right?”

“Of course I did.”

“And that explains why they were so--” Grantaire covers his face with both hands. “I think you should go.”

“What? I'm not going to leave you here alone--”

“You have to go teach in two hours. You have to shower and pick up your materials first. You should go.”

“Don't drink, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, almost desperately. “It's too early.”

“Why? So I don't accidentally push you down the stairs?”

“It's not that bad,” Enjolras says immediately, and then realizes that this was entirely the wrong thing to say. 

“I've _pushed you down the stairs_? Why didn't you _say_?”

“I thought you _knew_.”

Grantaire groans. “Go,” he says. “I'll text you later, all right?”

“Grantaire.” 

Enjolras can't decide what to do, but Grantaire's right, he does have to shower and eat and pick up his notes from home, which means he does have to leave, but he doesn't want to leave Grantaire in this state, hungover and sporting that bitter little smile. He leans forward and presses his mouth against Grantaire's and waits for Grantaire to respond. It takes a second, but he does, sucks a little on Enjolras's lower lip and buries his hand in Enjolras's hair. He tugs on it, just a little, just slightly, but it's enough that Enjolras shivers against him, and Grantaire pulls away. 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says again. 

“I'll text you later, Apollo.”

It is this more than anything that convinces Enjolras that it's all right to leave.

* * *

Enjolras detours to Cafe Musain on his way to class for a coffee and bagel. Combeferre's there, monopolizing an entire booth with study materials, various different books on theory stacked up around him and his laptop. Joly's taking up the adjacent booth with his laptop, two intimidating-looking tomes, and a paper he's scribbling on incessantly.

“Morning,” Enjolras says cautiously to them.

“Morning,” Joly says, grinning up at him as Combeferre gives him a once-over.

“You look healthy,” Combeferre says. “Like you haven't slept much, but at least there aren't any new bruises.”

“He isn't hitting me, Combeferre,” Enjolras says. “I mean it.”

“Enjolras, I want to believe you, because I don't want to believe that Grantaire would do that to you or anyone. But we all know he drinks a lot, and he's not exactly a _docile_ drunk--”

“He isn't hitting me,” Enjolras repeats. “Call off your hounds.”

“They're your hounds, too,” Combeferre reminds him. “And they care about you.”

“If they care about me, and if they care about Grantaire, they'll _stop_.”

“Look,” Combeferre says. “You're our leader, but we make the plans together, and when you're wrong, I tell you you're wrong.” 

He reaches out for Enjolras's shoulder and when Enjolras winces at his touch he frowns. 

“What?”

“I—my shoulder's hurt.”

“Let me see.”

“Combeferre, I--”

“Let me see.”

Enjolras sighs and unbuttons his shirt, shows Combeferre the dark bruising on his shoulder.

“Fuck,” Combeferre says. “Do you need to go to the doctor? Joly, come see this.”

Joly looks around at them, pretending he hasn't been listening the whole time. “What?”

“Does he need to see a doctor?”

Joly peers at it. “I couldn't say for sure without an x-ray, but if you can move it all right--”

“It's just a bruise,” Enjolras snaps, pulling his shirt back over his shoulder and buttoning it. 

“I can get you in touch with some people at the clinic,” Joly says. “They can check you out--”

“I said it's fine,” Enjolras says. 

“I meant the psych clinic,” Joly says. “Not—I mean, you wouldn't have to check yourself in, just—maybe talk to someone--”

Enjolras stares at him. 

“He isn't hitting me.”

“Victims often defend their abusers,” Joly says. “Sometimes they even love them. It's not your fault, all right? We just want you to be safe.”

Enjolras groans.

“Just have dinner with us,” Combeferre says. “Tonight. And maybe spend the night apart from Grantaire, okay?”

“Combeferre--”

“I'll have one of my psych friends--”

“Do absolutely nothing,” Enjolras says. “I mean it, Joly, there will be absolute hell to pay if you try to stage some sort of—of intervention or something. And please--” he says it pleadingly, and he knows this isn't typical for him because Combeferre looks away as if in shame. “Please leave Grantaire alone. I swear he isn't hurting me.”

“Enjolras--”

“Don't you _trust me_?”

“Of course we trust you,” Joly says. “But the victims of abuse aren't always able to--”

“I know what the victims of abuse aren't always able to do,” Enjolras says, reigning in the emotion is voice, re-steadying it. “We ran an entire series of lectures for victims of domestic abuse. You're actually quoting our lecturer to me. Do you know who secured that lecturer?”

“I did,” Combeferre says.

“Well,” Enjolras says. “Right, it was you, but it was on my--”

“Orders?”

“Well—yes.”

Combeferre rolls his eyes.

“Have dinner with us,” he says again. “We just want to make sure you're safe. And—maybe stay at your place tonight. Alone.”

“Combeferre--”

“I'm just asking you to take some time and clear your head.”

Enjolras stares at him. “Fine,” he says. “ _Fine_.”

* * *

Grantaire doesn't text him after all, and Enjolras's anxiety mounts until he finishes teaching his class and goes to his lecture on Rawls and argues with his professor and grades some of his students' papers. By the time he's on the subway back to Grantaire's apartment, it's late afternoon/early evening and he's sure Grantaire's either drunk alone or harassing people at the Musain, which Enjolras couldn't really blame him for.

It turns out Grantaire's neither: he's working a steady buzz, and he's nursing a glass of something brown and murky when Enjolras gets to his apartment, but he isn't nearly as drunk as he usually is by this time of day, and he's holding a paintbrush in his other hand and a cigarette in his mouth. 

“Hi,” he says.

“You didn't text me,” Enjolras accuses.

“I was going to, I just--” Grantaire gestures to the corner of the room, where a massive canvas is stretched over the wall. It's different to his typical style—instead of expressionist portraiture, it's something more abstract, a blur of colors layered over each other.

“Trying something new?”

“Something old,” Grantaire says. “I was really into Rothko in high school.”

“He's that red painting, right?” 

“Yeah. He, um—he was concerned about form, space, color, and he wanted to sort of—sort of make them all explicit? By breaking them down. He thought good art, dramatic art, was about monsters and gods. His style was about breaking down everything into its building blocks, and that way you could make sense of it.”

Enjolras stares at Grantaire's painting, which doesn't seem to make sense of anything. 

“It's not done yet,” Grantaire says, more than a little defensively. “Courfeyrac called me.”

“He did?”

“He wanted to make sure I was okay,” Grantaire says, snorting derisively. “As if he should be asking me, the abuser, whether I'm okay ...”

“But you aren't an abuser.”

“But they all think I am.”

“Maybe Courfeyrac doesn't.”

“He does.” Grantaire puts his glass down, but it's only for a moment to refill it. “Thirsty?”

“I'm all right.”

“Oh, come on. You never drink with me.”

“Because someone needs to take care of you.”

“I got around fine before you.”

“I always thought your bruises were from boxing. Or banging your head against the wall repeatedly.”

“Sometimes they were,” Grantaire says. “I just always assumed I was getting into fights, but sometimes I'd wake up and I'd be hanging upside down behind the couch … that's how I figured out I was tripping over stuff.”

“So you don't remember?”

“No,” Grantaire says, picking up his now filled glass and pushing another toward Enjolras before he stands up and starts pacing the length of the room. “We need to figure out how to stop this.”

“I don't see a way other than you not drinking anymore.”

“Or you could be a little more assertive. Hmm.” Grantaire picks up his paintbrush and adds a stripe of blue to his canvas before returning to pacing. “It only happens when I'm past blackout drunk, since I can never remember … but before I throw up or pass out?”

“I guess so.”

“Right,” Grantaire says, stopping mid-stride to look at his painting from across the room. “Right. So I need to not get that drunk, or if I do, I need to trust you to get me drunker.”

“Grantaire, I'm not going to--”

“I'll try,” Grantaire says. “For the sake of your spectacular cheekbones. But you need to try, too.”

He takes a long drink from his glass as if to punctuate the point. Then he asks, like he doesn't want to know the answer, “Even Jean Prouvaire thinks--”

“I'm sorry, Grantaire.”

Grantaire sighs. “Even Bossuet? But surely he must understand that accidents--”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and when Grantaire doesn't look around at him Enjolras throws back the rest of his glass of whiskey and stands. “Grantaire.”

“I'm sorry,” Grantaire says.

“Come here.”

Grantaire ignores him.

“Come _here_.”

“And Courfeyrac thought I was the dominant one.”

It's half-joking in that typical Grantaire way, but Grantaire turns back around and his face is an absolute wreck. He tries a weak smile. 

“Maybe we _are_ a little kinky.”

“Maybe,” Grantaire says. 

Enjolras crosses the room and takes Grantaire's glass out of his hand. He sets both of them down on the table before kissing Grantaire slowly, sweetly. At once, Grantaire takes charge, moves so that Enjolras is pressed up against the wall next to the painting, pins him there with his hips and slips his hand behind Enjolras's head so it doesn't bang against the wall. The kiss is aggressive, suddenly, and Grantaire is using his teeth just lightly, just nibbling on Enjolras's lower lip until Enjolras sucks in a breath and Grantaire tugs away with Enjolras's lip still between his teeth. It only takes that much to make Enjolras start to get hard, which Grantaire must be able to _feel_ , because he's _right there_ , and Enjolras tries but can't suppress a whimper.

“Wait,” Grantaire says, separating from Enjolras momentarily. “How kinky _are_ you in bed?”

Enjolras finds himself too hoarse to respond, because he's just realized that he's been picturing himself naked, bound, and getting fucked by Grantaire since he made that stupid comment about dominance in bed, and that isn't—He coughs, clears his throat. “Uh—could be kinkier, I guess.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning it's possible I've been spanked before.”

“And liked it?”

“And liked it.”

Grantaire is frowning, but it's a thoughtful frown. 

“Who spanked you?” 

Perhaps not entirely thoughtful, then.

“The woman I lost my virginity to.”

“Please God don't say La Patria.”

“I didn't lose my virginity to La Patria. La Patria transcends such human—”

“Christ, shut the fuck up.” Grantaire's voice takes on an odd tone, almost cruel but not really, and Enjolras thrusts against him. He's glad to see that Grantaire is hard, too. “Who'd you lose your virginity to?”

“Are you feeling jealous?”

“A bit.”

“Possessive?”

“Maybe.”

“Are _you_ at all kinky in bed, Grantaire?”

Grantaire blushes so suddenly that Enjolras laughs aloud, but it comes out all strangled and funny and Grantaire laughs at that, cocks his head thoughtfully to the side. 

“Yes,” Grantaire says finally, his hand at the back of Enjolras's head gripping the hair there and tugging just lightly. “Is this okay?”

Enjolras wants to nod, but he finds that Grantaire's hold on his hair is too strong, so he gasps out, “Yes,” and Grantaire kisses him again, open mouthed, so it's less a kiss than an unceremonious mashing of mouth against mouth, tongue gliding along the underside of Grantaire's teeth. Enjolras reaches down between them for his cock, but Grantaire growls, “No,” right into his mouth, grabs both of Enjolras's wrists with his free hand and holds them up above their heads.

“Grantaire--” Enjolras says, and Grantaire immediately drops his wrists and backs off.

“Sorry,” Grantaire says. “I thought you wanted--”

“No, I do,” Enjolras says. “I was just going to—uh--”

“What?”

“Possibly beg you to touch me.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says. “Well—go for it, then.”

“I told Combeferre—I told Combeferre and Joly I'd meet them for dinner.”

“When?”

“Ten minutes ago.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says, and backs away again, though his hips are still pinning Enjolras to the wall. “Fuck.”

“Yeah, we're—we're—do you want to come?”

“What?”

“Do you want to come? To dinner?”

“Somehow I doubt I'm invited.”

“Right,” Enjolras says. He runs a hand through his hair. “Right. Uh--”

“Your hair's a mess.”

“Is it?”

“Your voice is all high-pitched, too.”

“Really? I hadn't noticed.”

“So you were into that?”

Enjolras tries not to nod too emphatically because it doesn't seem dignified, but he's afraid he's rather missed the boat on dignified. He tries for not-embarrassed instead, and thinks he comes off as sort of snooty and smug, but Grantaire laughs. He reaches over, smooths down some of Enjolras's messy hair.

“Where are you eating?”

“Probably just the Musain.”

Grantaire shakes his head. “New York is wasted on you. Hundreds of restaurants, thousands of bars, and you eat at the same place twice a day.”

“They don't charge us.”

“Some places are worth the price. There's this great little authentic Chinese stand in Harlem—but you don't care about that. Go enjoy your ABC French fries and caesar salads, Apollo.” 

Grantaire kisses him. It's not like their last kiss—it's short, sweet, almost chaste in nature. It's a goodbye kiss.

“Come over tonight,” Enjolras says despite himself. “Just—come over tonight.”

“Okay,” Grantaire says. 

His eyes are shaded, and Enjolras can't tell what he's thinking. 

“Text me.”

“You text me,” Grantaire says, grinning. “Let me know when your dinner's over.”

“Okay,” Enjolras says. 

He tries to straighten himself up some more because he's pretty sure he looks like a total disaster and leaves Grantaire's apartment.

Combeferre, Joly, and Feuilly are all there, waiting for him, and Jehan is there too but he's at the corner of the bar writing something in a notebook.

Enjolras sighs and sits down. He can break down Combeferre's personnel selection easily: Combeferre is there because he's Combeferre, always there, always steady, always ready to be his second if he loses a duel. Or something. Joly is there because of the med school thing, because more than anyone else he can claim to have actual credibility, and he looks with some worry at Enjolras's shoulder, which Enjolras has carefully covered in shirt and now-very-rumpled cardigan. Feuilly is there because Combeferre must think this has something to do with justice, or with the cause in some respect, because Feuilly's the only one Enjolras can say has really married himself to the cause completely. For him, it's all or nothing, liberty or death. Enjolras was like that, too, before Grantaire stumbled into his life and made him feel all distracted and warm all the time. And Feuily has his art, too, just like Grantaire. 

“Hi,” Enjolras says, fully aware that his tone sounds clipped and cold. 

He sits down in the empty seat next to Combeferre and waits for one of them to start talking.

“How's your class?”

“It's all right,” Enjolras says. “I don't fear quite as much for the future of humanity, I guess, since some of my students are pretty smart.”

“What is it again? A discussion section?” Feuilly asks.

“It's a class on justice, and yeah, I lead a discussion section.”

“They like Rawls?” Combeferre says, grinning. 

“Of course they like Rawls. They all wish they could have been here for Occupy Wall Street.”

Eponine comes over to take their orders, cutting into their discussion. “How's Grantaire?” she asks Enjolras, ignoring Joly's sharp intake of breath. 

“He's all right,” Enjolras says. “He's painting.”

Eponine's lips press together. “You mean he isn't strangling kittens and planning his elaborate takeover of Cafe Musain via its most valued customer?”

Enjolras blinks. “Oh thank God.”

“Eponine,” Combeferre says.

“No, it's ridiculous that you think Grantaire would—”

“If that's what the evidence points to--”

Eponine rolls her eyes. 

“Hi, I'm your server, Eponine. What can I get for you today?” 

She looks at Joly expectantly.

“Uh—can I have a turkey burger, please, Ep?”

Eponine scrawls it down angrily. Enjolras has never seen anyone scrawl angrily, but Eponine manages it. She squeezes his shoulder, though, as she's leaving their table, and Enjolras is painfully relieved that he has an ally.

* * *

The rest of dinner is just the worst. His friends step delicately around the Grantaire subject, but they don't even do it cleverly the way they usually might, the way Courfeyrac certainly would. It's touching, Enjolras supposes, that they're worried about him—he had no idea they were this protective of him. It isn't that he doubted any one of them would risk their lives for his—it's more that he'd been expecting that to be more about the cause and less about him. So in a sense, it's sweet that they care about him so deeply that they're willing to try to protect him even from someone who is friends with all of them.

It's also fucking stupid, though, and Enjolras gets it, he gets that victims of abuse sometimes have trouble outing their abusers, but he wishes they would just fucking _trust him_ , and it is _extremely fucking annoying_ that they don't. 

That's why, even though he told his friends he wouldn't and even though he doesn't usually lie—hide things, sure, mislead people, but not usually lie—he texts Grantaire to come over. 

“How was it?”

“It was fine,” Enjolras says. “How was your night?”

Grantaire shrugs. He's clearly drunk, but he's the kind of drunk that's tolerable most of the time, before he gets too sloppy but still loose, not as contained. He's not tightly furled around himself the way he sometimes gets when he's sober at the wrong time.

“How's your painting?”

“Mediocre. Looks like something a tenth grade art student would paint after going to the Met.”

“A-plus work, then?”

“Exactly.” Grantaire lurches toward him. “Pick up where we left off?”

He stumbles as he comes forward, though, and laughs. 

“Maybe not,” Enjolras says.

“Yeah, you're right.” 

Grantaire comes forward anyway, and, to Enjolras's surprise, hugs him.

“Thanks for trying to change their minds,” he says into Enjolras's neck.

“How do you know I tried to change their minds?”

“You try to change everyone's minds.”

Enjolras kisses him. He does it because he finds that he misses Grantaire, even clumsy drunk Grantaire, and because he's still upset about dinner and because he's tired and wants to go to bed and because Grantaire's right, he does make a habit out of trying to change people's minds.

“I thought you didn't want to--”

“I just want to go to sleep,” Enjolras says, exhaustion weighing down every cell in his body. 

“Should I leave?”

Grantaire sounds dejected, but he's already putting his shoes back on, and he loses balance with one foot still up in the air, totters for a moment, and it's only because Enjolras moves impossibly quickly that Grantaire doesn't bang against the floor. His elbow bangs against Enjolras's ribcage instead, and Enjolras is momentarily winded as they both collapse in a heap against the wall.

“Fuck,” Grantaire says. “Sorry. They're right about me, aren't they? I am hurting you. I'm not even that drunk.”

“Every drunk person I've ever seen fall over has said that exact sentence to me,” Enjolras says. “You're hurting me, but it's only because your elbow is digging into my left lung.”

“Fuck,” Grantaire says again. “I'm sorry.” 

Enjolras seizes his chin. “Stop apologizing.”

“Sorry.” 

But Grantaire is grinning this time, and Enjolras kisses him again. Grantaire laughs into his mouth.

“Please get off me.”

Grantaire does, and he rebalances well enough to stick out a hand and help Enjolras up, his other hand copping a quick feel of Enjolras's ass before its long fingers slip under the hem of Enjolras's shirt.

“Let's go to bed,” Enjolras says.

“I thought I was the one giving orders.”

“Not when we're not having sex.”

Grantaire laughs, but he doesn't let go of Enjolras's hand, lets himself be led into Enjolras's bedroom.

For the second night in a row, they don't fuck, but this time Enjolras, exhausted from not sleeping enough the night before, sinks facedown into his mattress, Grantaire falling in beside him.

So it's with a start that the loud knocking on the door of his apartment wakes Enjolras up, and even then he's not sure if it was the knocking or Grantaire carefully unentangling their limbs.

“What the fuck,” Enjolras says.

“Shh, I got it,” Grantaire whispers. “Go back to sleep.”

“Gun,” Enjolras says.

“Go back to sleep, Apollo,” Grantaire says, kissing Enjolras's forehead.

Enjolras drifts back asleep as Grantaire gets the gun from the drawer in the nightstand, but he's jolted awake what seems like moments later by Courfeyrac's voice in the living room.

His first thought is that something happened, that the guest from before had been a member of Patron-Minette or something come to rob or fight them and Grantaire called Courfeyrac, but a moment later he remembers facts: a gunshot would have woken him; Courfeyrac lives a floor down and wouldn't have needed to get buzzed into the building; Combeferre is just the type to have someone check up on him in the middle of the night, or—he sees when he glances at the alarm clock on his nightstand—11:30 pm. Enjolras moves to leave the room, but he realizes a moment later that they're talking about _him_.

“How can you hurt him? Look at him, he's so innocent—he's like Bambi,” Courfeyrac is saying.

“I'll have you know I was traumatized by Bambi,” Grantaire replies, his voice bland, betraying none of the edge Enjolras knows is there. “And Enjolras is—well, I guess he _is_ a bit like him.”

Enjolras blanches from inside his bedroom. He's not sure if this is an upsetting or endearing way to hear himself described and settles on: probably both.

“Grantaire,” Courfeyrac says, and the weight of the word threatens to suffocate even Enjolras. 

There's silence in the living room for a moment, and then Grantaire says, voice a bit choked and cracking halfway through: “I'm not doing it on purpose.”

“So you _are_ hitting him?” Almost triumphant.

“ _No_.” Emphatic. 

“Then--”

“I'm clumsy when I'm drunk. Really clumsy. That wasn't a lie.”

“Grantaire, if you're hitting him and you can't remember--”

“You all believe that? That I'm a violent drunk?”

“You're not a _docile_ one.”

“People keep saying that to me. It's not like I'm docile _sober_.”

“Maybe it's time to listen.” Pleading. “We're all worried about him. He's our friend.”

“Come on, Cour,” Grantaire says. It's almost _couer_ , almost deliberately French-sounding. “You know I would never hurt him. Not on purpose.”

“Abusers--”

“I'm not an abuser, and I thought you were my friend too.”

“I am,” Courfeyrac insists. “Grantaire, we can get you help—there's group therapy, there's psychiatrists who specialize in this kind of thing—you'd have to quit drinking, probably, or at least lower the amount you drink, or--”

“Please leave.”

“Only if you come with me.”

“I'm not coming with you.”

“Then I'm not leaving.”

“Fine.”

There's the sound of Grantaire standing, and a moment later he's back in Enjolras's bedroom, casting him a suspicious eye as he enters the room.

“Bambi?” Enjolras says. “Really?”

Grantaire shrugs. “A bit.”

“Is he going to leave?”

“I don't think so.”

“Should I go talk to him?”

Grantaire shrugs. 

“Maybe I should just go home. Maybe this whole thing was a bad idea.”

“It wasn't. Come back to bed.”

Grantaire does, sits down next to Enjolras and puts his head in his hands. His body is so tense it looks like it'll snap if Enjolras touches him. Enjolras does anyway, hand on his back. When Grantaire doesn't move, Enjolras starts rubbing it in small circles. 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says. “Relax. Lie down, come here.” 

Grantaire's head drops onto one of Enjolras's pillows obediently. 

“All my friends hate me. How am I supposed to relax when _all my friends hate me_?”

“They don't hate you. They're worried about you. And me. And us in general.”

“And, what, that manifests in them suspecting me of beating you?” Grantaire sighs. “It's bad enough that I actually am injuring you--”

“Accidentally,” Enjolras says. “And that's important, okay, intent is important.”

“Of course intent's important, but I'm still hurting you. They're _right_.”

“Grantaire--”

“I just don't know how to--”

Enjolras cuts him off with his mouth, tracing Grantaire's lower lip with his tongue.

“You're fine,” Enjolras says, almost into Grantaire's mouth. “We're fine. Our friends will be fine.”

“You have sleep breath.”

“Courfeyrac woke me up, remember? _You_ taste like an old brewery.”

Grantaire laughs. “Speaking of which--”

“No,” Enjolras says. “I want you sober.”

“For what?”

“For sleeping.”

Enjolras kisses Grantaire again, moves off his face and down his throat. Grantaire makes a soft whimpering sort of sound when Enjolras gets to that spot on the side of his neck that Grantaire likes to have touched. Enjolras lingers there, kissing and sucking, blowing lightly on the wet spots he leaves until Grantaire shivers against him.

“I can't believe you slept in your jeans,” Enjolras breathes against Grantaire's neck as he unzips them and reaches for Grantaire's cock. He drags his fingers lightly against the shaft until Grantaire thrusts impatiently against him. “Shh, stop. I'm going to take care of you.”

“Courfeyrac--”

“Fuck Courfeyrac,” Enjolras says, still into that spot on Grantaire's neck. 

Grantaire bucks against him again and Enjolras laughs, more of a breath than anything, and Grantaire is shaking again.

“That's not from alcohol withdrawal, is it?”

Grantaire makes a strangled sort of sound that might be a laugh or a sob, and Enjolras licks at the place where Grantaire's collar meets his skin. He debates and decides against nipple play, because as into this as he is Enjolras is also exhausted and just trying to get Grantaire calm enough to sleep.

“Fuck,” Grantaire chokes out when Enjolras pushes Grantaire's jeans the rest of the way off and lets Grantaire's cock completely free at last. Enjolras tightens his grip around it, kissing Grantaire once more before ducking his head down to Grantaire's cock. 

Enjolras pushes Grantaire's shirt up, nuzzles the spot where his happy trail starts, kisses it and licks at it until Grantaire moans. Enjolras moves down to Grantaire's inner thighs, still biting and sucking and blowing lightly.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says, voice tight, and when Enjolras looks up at him Grantaire moans, “Fuck,” again.

“Yes?”

“You're such a fucking tease.”

Enjolras moves on to Grantaire's cock at last at this, dragging his tongue slowly down the shaft and then over the tip. He swirls his tongue eagerly around the tip and then grazes his lips tentatively against the underside of Grantaire's cock, and it's hard to want to move quickly when he has Grantaire like this, trying to stifle his moans and failing, trying to keep himself from thrusting into Enjolras's mouth and only sort of succeeding. Enjolras has to reach down and touch himself, because this is getting truly pathetic, the way his cock is poking out of his boxers begging to be touched. 

“No, I can--” Grantaire starts, but Enjolras cuts him off by springing back up and kissing him again.

“Do you taste that?”

“Yes,” Grantaire whispers into Enjolras's mouth.

“That's you hard and barely containing yourself for me. Look at you, trying to not be a total slut for me. Not working out too well, is it, Grantaire?”

Grantaire shakes his head.

“I said I'm going to take care of you, and then we're going to go to sleep, and in the morning we'll figure it out.”

“Fine,” Grantaire says. “Fine, fine, just--”

Enjolras laughs, kisses Grantaire against, and then immediately resumes his oral teasing. He wraps his mouth around the head of Grantaire's cock, circles his tongue around it before swallowing more of it. 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire pants, his voice barely louder than his breath. “Fuck, please, just--”

Enjolras complies at last, though he doesn't take as much of Grantaire's cock as he usually would. He gets it far enough in that Grantaire thrusts suddenly, helplessly into Enjolras's mouth several times before regaining control of his hips. 

“Just relax,” Enjolras says around the tip.

Grantaire thrusts anyway, and Enjolras meets his rhythm, sucking Grantaire's cock in and out of his mouth slowly, taking more each time, until he feels Grantaire buck against him. He reaches for Grantaire's balls with his free hand, cups them lightly, and waits for Grantaire's strained, “Fuck, Christ, Enjolras,” to tug just slightly.

Grantaire comes in two short spurts into Enjolras's mouth. 

“Get up here,” he all but growls, climbing on top of Enjolras and kissing him, wrapping his hand around Enjolras's and jerking him off slowly until Enjolras comes all over his own stomach.

“Let me clean you up,” Grantaire says.

“Only if you plan on using your tongue.”

“I was going to use a wet wipe, but that works.”

“That was sort of a joke.”

But Grantaire doesn't listen. 

“You said I'm a total slut for you, and I totally am.” 

Enjolras would laugh if he weren't so tired.

Grantaire actually fucking licks it off, all soft tongue against Enjolras's skin, and then he steals Enjolras's trick, starts nibbling and blowing lightly on the wet spots, and Enjolras is sure that if he hadn't just come he could have gotten hard and gotten off just from this, from Grantaire's proximity and his tongue on Enjolras's navel and the ridiculous look he gets when he looks up at Enjolras.

“All clear,” he says softly, but then his fingers graze over Enjolras's ribcage very lightly. “Fuck.”

“Let's go back to sleep,” Enjolras says.

“Okay,” Grantaire says, and lets Enjolras curl himself around him. “Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure.”

“No, I mean—for taking care of me.”

“That's what I'm here for.”

Grantaire is silent for a moment, and Enjolras almost thinks he's dozed off, but then he says, “Good night, Bambi.”

Enjolras snorts. “Good night.”

* * *

When Enjolras wakes up in the morning, he's almost late for class again. Grantaire is gone, but he's texted Enjolras-- _had a meeting w gallery lady + had to go. thx again for last night. <3_. Courfeyrac is still there, watching TV and drinking coffee he's obviously made in Enjolras's kitchen, when Enjolras emerges from his room to shower.

“You're such a fucking prick,” Enjolras says. “Go home.”

“We're all just worried--”

“Have you fucking _seen_ what you're doing to Grantaire?”

Courfeyrac has the grace to look ashamed, but it's only momentary: “Have you seen what he's doing to you?”

“What?”

“Look at yourself.”

“What?” 

“Your entire ribcage is a bruise.”

“What?”

Absently, Enjolras notes that Grantaire plunged his elbow into his ribcage the night before, but that doesn't make the look Courfeyrac is giving him any better.

“Not to mention those little weird bruises on your stomach.”

“Those are hickeys,” Enjolras says.

“You expect me to believe--”

“Not the rib bruise. That's from slamming into a wall with Grantaire's entire weight balanced on one of his elbows, which happened to be balanced on _me_. The little weird bruises are hickeys.”

Courfeyrac stares at him. “Grantaire had a hickey when he left this morning. But not last night when I saw him.”

“Sounds about right.”

“You two—had sex? With me here?”

“You've all been complete _assholes_ the past few days. Do you know what that means for Grantaire? That means he doesn't drink at Cafe Musain. It means he drinks at random bars with shadier patronage or he drinks alone. It means he lies in his bed thinking about what a horrible fucking person he must be, that not even his friends can trust him to not beat his partner. And it means that none of you can trust me to make my own decisions about my life. When I tell you he isn't hitting me, I want you to believe that he isn't hitting me. Is that clear?”

“I want to believe it,” Courfeyrac says. “You know I do. But--”

“But nothing. What's it going to take, Courfeyrac? You want to spy on us? Bug my apartment? Be my fucking guest. But for now, I'd like you to get out, because I have to go to class, and apparently I can't trust my friends anymore.”

“Enjolras--”

“ _What_?”

“Please know it's not from a bad place. We're just—we're all worried about you.”

Enjolras sighs. “I know. That doesn't make it fair to Grantaire. Please leave.”

Courfeyrac leaves at last, and Enjolras succumbs to the growing pain on his torso, pressing an ice pack to it as he makes himself coffee.

* * *

“I have to finish a couple more pieces,” Grantaire is saying. “But the show should be really good.”

He has the early, slightly tipsy air Grantaire sometimes gets when he's only had a couple of drinks and is happy. It's Enjolras's favorite version of drunk Grantaire, and it sort of makes Enjolras understand why they call it being buzzed. Enjolras can picture Grantaire pacing, brimming with energy.

“That's excellent news,” Enjolras says, relieved that Grantaire has something good in his life considering all their friends have started acting like complete trash. That's not fair, he supposes, because they're just concerned about his well-being, but still. They could find a way to do it that doesn't make his boyfriend, their _friend_ , feel like a pariah. “Let's celebrate over dinner?”

“Sure,” Grantaire says. “There's this place I've been wanting to try on the Upper East Side—I know you hate it, but hear me out, it's like this tiny authentic Mexican place and they make one of the stiffest margaritas in the city.”

“I was thinking at my apartment.”

“Why? So Courfeyrac can assault us again? Why don't we have dinner in the East Village instead and we can spend the night at my place?”

“Does your place smell like paint, cigarettes, and alcohol?”

“It doesn't smell any different than usual.”

“So yes.”

“That's what I smell like.”

“It smells better when it's interacted with your sweat.”

“Don't start,” Grantaire says. His laugh sounds tinny over the phone. “You know I can only do the phone sex thing when I'm drunk and desperate.”

“That was sincere,” Enjolras says. “But I really want you to come over. I bought cauliflower, Grantaire, this is serious.”

“Wow, cauliflower,” Grantaire says. Enjolras can hear the laughter in his voice, and it shouldn't surprise him anymore how badly he wants to see Grantaire in person. “Fine. I'll be there in an hour? I'll bring a bottle.”

“You always do.”

“No, I mean a nice one of wine that both of us drink out of,” Grantaire says. “You know I don't get drunk off wine. That's for lesser alcoholics.” He pauses as if for laughter, recognizes a moment later that he's not going to get it, and continues talking. “We can resume yesterday afternoon's activities. I can figure out who the mysterious woman who popped your cherry is and how far she took the spanking … I'm not buying 'La Patria took my heart and virginity in one fell swoop for she is the possessor of all of me, Grantaire, except for that corner of my heart which some cruel god has allotted to you' unless La Patria is the name of an expensive escort.”

“Okay,” Enjolras says. “I don't talk like that. You don't 'possess a corner of my heart,' Christ. Anyway, you came up with La Patria. I never told you her name.”

“Right,” Grantaire says. “I'll have to fuck it out of you.” His tone is still light, cheerful, buzzing, but the meaning behind it has shifted. “Slowly, d'you think? We can maybe give you some deliberate bruises?”

Enjolras shivers. “I thought you said you weren't into doing this over the phone.”

“I'm not doing anything,” Grantaire says. “Just talking about our plans for the evening.”

“Are you _outside_?”

“I'm still in Chelsea, actually. Picking up dessert at this bakery Eponine told me about—what do you prefer? Pie? Maybe a cheesecake? Actually—I think I'll take the tiramisu, please.” There's a moment's pause, and then, “Anyway, about the bruises—how do you feel about handcuffs? Or we could start with something lighter? A scarf, maybe? Do you have a scarf? Course you do, I've seen that red one a million times. We might ruin it, though, so maybe I'll buy a street corner pashmina.” He's still got that stupid cheerful tone on, and it's all Enjolras can do not to reach under his waistband. “What goes best with cauliflower? Red or white?”

“Probably red,” Enjolras says. “There will be—um—nuts. In the pasta. With the cauliflower.”

“That's not the only place there'll be nuts.” It's absurd enough that Enjolras laughs. There's more than a hint of suggestiveness in Grantaire's voice now, and Enjolras gets the idea he's back outside. “Anyway, Enjolras, if you want my advice, don't touch yourself til I'm there.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I don't want you wasting your cum on a tissue when you could be getting it all over my face … or maybe in my hair … maybe I could just swallow it.”

“Can people _hear you_?”

“No one's paying attention. Anyway, we'll talk over dinner, have a glass or two of wine, and then we'll figure out our spanking situation.”

“I wasn't expecting you to get me hard over the phone,” Enjolras complains. “I just wanted to cook for you and maybe talk about my Dworkin lecture.”

“I'm not Combeferre. I don't give a fuck about Dworkin, except that I think his theory makes no sense.”

“How can you think—wait, you've--”

“Surprised I've read Dworkin?”

“Surprised you disagree with him,” Enjolras says, but Grantaire's right: Enjolras always underestimates just how well-read Grantaire is, probably because Enjolras himself is useless at reading anything when he's drunk and Grantaire is always drunk.

“Right,” Grantaire says. “I'll see you soon, babe.”

“Don't call me that.”

Grantaire blows a kiss into the phone, and Enjolras laughs despite himself.

* * *

Enjolras's phone goes off. It's Combeferre. 

_Accept or decline?_

His finger lands on the red just as his doorbell rings.

“You look nice,” he says, surprised. 

Grantaire's out of his usual skinny jeans, all dressed up for dinner in a black suit and dark blue shirt. 

“Thanks,” Grantaire says. “Not for you, though, I had to dress up for my meeting this morning and I haven't been home … I ditched the tie at some point in the Village ...”

“Should I be jealous?”

“Of my tie?”

“Of whatever made you take it off.”

Grantaire grins, lopsided and real. He sets the blue box and green bottle he's carrying down on Enjolras's kitchen counter.

“Turns out it's not red that goes best with cauliflower, it's white,” Grantaire says. “I asked at the wine shop. And it's sauvignon blanc, and it was expensive, so you'd better enjoy it.”

Once his arms are unloaded, Grantaire reaches for Enjolras, who reaches back, gripping Grantaire's shirt by its unbuttoned collar and kissing him. It feels almost combative, because Grantaire shoves at him until he gains control of the kiss, his fingers already tugging at the back of Enjolras's shirt.

“Dinner first,” Enjolras says, pulling away. “Come on. I cooked.”

“Are you a good cook?” Grantaire asks, and then laughs a little as if to himself. “Course you are. You're good at everything.”

“I resent that.”

“Name one thing you've tried and not been good at. Other than convincing our friends I'm not beating you.”

“Eponine thinks it's bullshit. Sends her love, by the way.”

“Good to hear.” 

“Grantaire.”

Grantaire doesn't respond, sits across the table from Enjolras with his mouth set in a hard line.

“Grantaire.”

“What?”

“We'll figure this out.”

“Right.” 

Grantaire opens the bottle of wine, pours them each a glass. 

“Hungry?” Enjolras says.

“Not really.”

“Grantaire.”

Grantaire looks up at him, shoots him a smile so swift it might not even be real, and says, “Let's eat.”

They eat in semi-silence, which is fairly new but not necessarily uncomfortable for them, at least not as uncomfortable as Enjolras expected. It's nice, sitting in silence with Grantaire, just observing the way he moves—he's not quite jerky in his movements, but he's not exactly what you might call smooth, either. His hands are confident, and he doesn't switch his fork from left to right when he's cutting his meat, and when he takes sips of wine his eyes light up and he smirks around the clear glass. When he puts his fork in his mouth, it's almost obscene. He eats cauliflower lovingly. Enjolras has never seen or heard of anyone eating cauliflower lovingly, but Grantaire manages it.

“What?” Grantaire says.

“What?”

“Why are you staring at me?”

“You're eating that cauliflower lovingly.”

“It's delicious, and I love delicious things.”

“Was that you trying to flirt?”

“I don't _try_ to flirt, Enjolras, I just _flirt_.”

“So is that what you're doing?”

Grantaire grins. “Just priming you for dessert.”

“Does flirting make tiramisu taste better?”

“I didn't mean the tiramisu.”

“Oh?”

“Not yet, though,” Grantaire says, settling back into his seat and putting another bite of cauliflower into his mouth. This time it's almost obscene, his tongue coming out to glide around the floret. “Can't have dessert before we finish our vegetables.”

“Do we have to eat the tiramisu before dessert?”

“Yes,” Grantaire says. “It's delicious. Now eat up, Apollo, you'll need your energy.”

The rest of dinner goes agonizingly slowly: Enjolras can barely taste his dinner, though by the end of it he's relaxed enough to enjoy the tiramisu and a glass or two of Grantaire's wine, and he really needs to stop getting hard just from Grantaire's _voice_ , Jesus.

All of this is just lead up, though, to Grantaire kissing Enjolras until he's dizzy under the guise of “fully enjoying the _very_ expensive fine wine I purchased” and then guiding him to his own bedroom.

“I thought I could tie you up,” Grantaire says, separating from Enjolras and producing a tie from nowhere.

“You said you'd ditched that in the Village.”

“I ditched it as part of my outfit. I didn't just throw it in an alley somewhere.”

“Oh.” Enjolras lets himself think about the implications of the tie, black with thin stripes of silver, and his breath hitches. 

“Oh?”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” Grantaire considers him, head cocked to the side. “Take off your shirt.”

There's no room in his voice for compromise, not that Enjolras wants to, so Enjolras obeys. His fingers dash up the front of his shirt—he's already shed his cardigan, but there are so many buttons on the shirt that he wants to stop wearing clothing altogether to prevent this from ever taking so long again.

“Relax,” Grantaire says, smiling at him. “I'm not going anywhere.”

“I'm not expecting you to,” Enjolras all but growls. “I'm just--”

“Eager?”

“Very.”

Grantaire's smile changes suddenly, takes on that odd almost-cruel look Grantaire gets sometimes. It's almost unbearably hot, and Enjolras's pants suddenly feel too constricting.

He gets the shirt open finally, and pushes it off so emphatically that Grantaire laughs out loud. 

“Good boy,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras reaches for his fly, eager to free his cock, but Grantaire shakes his head.

“Not yet,” he says. “Hold out your arms. No, wait—raise them above your head.”

Grantaire winds the tie around Enjolras's wrists—first one, then the other, so that they're pressed together—and then he must attach the tie to something behind Enjolras's head (the headboard, Enjolras reminds himself, it would only make sense that it's the headboard) because Enjolras finds that he can barely move them.

“That okay?” Grantaire says, and Enjolras nods. “Remember, if you're not comfortable with anything—just say the word, and I'll--”

“I'm comfortable,” Enjolras says. “Incredibly comfortable. I—just please, do something, I can't--”

Grantaire laughs. He picks up Enjolras's discarded shirt. “This looks expensive,” he says. “Wouldn't want to get it dirty.”

“Just throw it on the floor, _fuck_ , Grantaire--”

It's so _annoying_ , being helpless like this—Enjolras desperately wants to reach for his pants, undo his zipper, and jack _himself_ off if Grantaire won't be helpful, but he _can't_ , and Grantaire is fucking _looking for a hanger_.

“I hate you,” Enjolras says. 

“Don't be mean,” Grantaire says. “Meanness gets you punished.”

“Jesus, Grantaire--”

“So demanding.” Still odd, not-quite-cruel. It's—it's _authoritative_ , is what it is, and Enjolras feels like he's gotten even harder at that, and Grantaire has _finally_ hung the shirt up and come back.

“Now,” Grantaire says, and finally finally _finally_ undoes the zipper of Enjolras's pants and pushes them down, taking Enjolras's boxers with them. 

Grantaire steps back, looks over Enjolras for a moment. Enjolras can picture what he looks like, bound to the bed with his cock sticking angrily up and his hips trembling as he tries not to buck against the bed, flip himself over and just hump himself to orgasm, get _any_ kind of contact on his cock.

“How are you real?” Grantaire says, voice sounding the way it normally does except filled with the sort of wonder he gets when he's looking at art. Enjolras is somehow more attracted to Grantaire at that, and maybe that means his own ego is just directly attached to both his cock and his heart. “And why are you with _me_?” It sounds like it's meant just for himself, like it's an accident, and he's not looking Enjolras in the eye when he says it.

“Because you're impossible,” Enjolras grinds out. “Now _touch me_ , Grantaire, honestly.”

Grantaire looks him in the eye again, seems to remember that Enjolras is in fact awake and listening to him and painfully hard. 

“Doesn't sound much like you're submitting,” Grantaire says cheerily-slash-cruelly. “You're gonna have to do a little better than that.”

“Grantaire, _please_ ,” Enjolras says, and Jesus, how is Grantaire still dressed right now, not even _touching_ himself, honestly maybe Enjolras is just weak, or maybe it's just been a while, because he's pretty sure if Grantaire doesn't do something soon Enjolras is just going to die. “Gran _taire_ \--” He bucks furiously against the mattress without meaning to, his hips jutting up and then slamming back down as if he can get off against the air. “ _Please_.”

“Wow,” Grantaire says. “I mean, I knew you were a slut, but I didn't realize you were this desperate.”

“Fuck, Grantaire, please, just--”

And then Grantaire does, drags his tongue from the tip of Enjolras's cock all the way to its base before dropping a cheeky kiss on Enjolras's ballsack that makes Grantaire laugh and Enjolras shudder.

“Spread your legs,” Grantaire says. “Wide as you can.” 

Enjolras does.

“Good boy,” Grantaire murmurs.

And then, without even taking his fucking jacket off, he moves his tongue lower, grazing over Enjolras's taint before reaching his asshole. Enjolras feels only extra heat and wetness for a moment before Grantaire finds a spot that makes Enjolras's vision go momentarily white. Enjolras lets out a groan, and Grantaire must take that as direction because he starts flicking at the spot with his tongue and then circling his asshole again before returning to the spot, an action that makes Enjolras want to bang his fists against the bed or ball them in Grantaire's hair or grasp his own cock but he _can't_ and so he settles on gasping Grantaire's name desperately over and over again.

“Grantaire, please,” Enjolras tries to say, but it comes out like a whimper. “Please, you have to fuck me, please--”

He thinks Grantaire is going to refuse, or at least say something about how he's supposed to be giving the orders, but then Grantaire gives him one last hearty lick and rises, grins, and finally takes off his fucking jacket. His pants and underwear and shirt come off a moment later, and Enjolras is vindictively glad to see that Grantaire's cock looks painfully hard, too. It takes Grantaire barely any time to find a condom in Enjolras's nightstand and roll it onto his cock, and then squirts some extra lube into his hand, warms it up, and slips it into Enjolras with three ruthless fingers. Enjolras is more than ready for it, bucks against Grantaire's fingers and wants to come, but then--

“Not yet,” Grantaire says. “Don't you dare come yet, not before I've gotten to fuck you.”

Enjolras shudders, but manages to control himself, tries not to move at all until Grantaire slides Enjolras's fingers out of his asshole and replaces them at last with his cock. Grantaire helps him here, holds onto Enjolras's hips with fingers so firm they almost hurt.

“FuckingChristGrantairefinally,” Enjolras says all in one breath.

“Don't come,” Grantaire warns again, and then he starts to move. 

It takes him a few thrusts to get in and find Enjolras's prostate, but then there it is, and everything is white hot for Enjolras again, and then Grantaire fucking _speeds up_ , fucks Enjolras hard and fast and strokes his prostate with each thrust and just when Enjolras thinks he can handle it Grantaire fucking _spanks_ him, a sharp hand to the part of Enjolras's ass that is just rising off the bed. For a second Enjolras can't react except to moan in the most desperate, undignified way, his mind a scrambled mess of nothing except sheer desire, and then Grantaire spanks him again. There's a prickling sensation that Enjolras can feel in his whole body, and thank God Grantaire's a merciful man because on his third spank he wraps his other hand around Enjolras's cock, gives it a tantalizingly slow stroke, and says, “You can come now, Enjolras.”

They come almost entirely in tandem, Enjolras's cum landing all over him and Grantaire while Grantaire rides the orgasm until it finishes for both of them, thrusting through it and letting his cock slip out, dumping the condom unceremoniously in the bin next to Enjolras's nightstand.

“Fuck,” Enjolras says, or tries to say, as Grantaire collapses against him, presses a surprisingly gentle kiss to the side of his neck.

“How are you doing?” Grantaire says softly into the space next to Enjolras's ear.

“Spectacularly,” Enjolras says, voice still hoarse.

“And your arms?”

“I can't feel them anymore,” Enjolras admits. 

“Did you like it?”

“I hated it, but in a good way.”

“Good.”

Grantaire rises off him slightly, which Enjolras hates until he realizes the Grantaire's untying him, the silky fabric of the tie feeling surprisingly rough against Enjolras's wrists. When he looks at them, he finds that they've been rubbed raw.

“I'll get you some aloe,” Grantaire says.

“I don't have any aloe.”

“I figured,” Grantaire says. “I brought it with me.”

He gets up, finds it somewhere on the floor, and rubs it on Enjolras's wrists. “Better?”

“Infinitely.”

“You're a very thrashy sub,” Grantaire says. “Jesus, good thing I didn't use ropes or handcuffs or something.”

“Could you?”

“If you promise not to hurt yourself.” Grantaire smiles, puts the aloe away, and sinks back onto the bed, almost completely covering Enjolras's body with his own. “That's a pleasure reserved strictly for me. Did you like the spanking?”

Enjolras finds that he wants to laugh, absurdly, and the sound bubbles out of his throat before he can stop it. It sounds borderline hysterical, and Grantaire lifts off him again, looks down at him with concern.

“Yes,” Enjolras says. “Yes, I liked the spanking. I liked everything. Please stop doing that.”

“Stop doing what?”

“Moving away.” He pulls Grantaire back over him, kisses him gently on the mouth and tucks his head against Grantaire's arm.

Enjolras is about to fall asleep when Grantaire nudges him lightly.

“What did you mean?”

“What?”

“When you said I was impossible.”

Enjolras feels something inside him—not quite shatter, but certainly come close, at the odd tremor in Grantaire's voice.

“I meant that I love you,” Enjolras says. “Now sleep with me.”

Grantaire doesn't respond, but he presses back against Enjolras, and as far as Enjolras can tell, sleeps.

* * *

Waking up next to Grantaire is a dream, except that it's the opposite because it's not a dream because he's awake. Or something. Enjolras is still pre-caffeinated, so his thoughts are still jumbled, but he knows that he loves this, loves waking up to Grantaire still stretched out beside him, flicking through something on his phone.

“Morning,” Enjolras mumbles.

“Morning,” Grantaire says, reaching for the night stand and handing Enjolras a steaming mug of coffee.

“You're my hero,” Enjolras says hoarsely, drinking deeply. He's sure he can feel the caffeine flowing through his system, taking charge and blocking off adenosine receptors or whatever it is caffeine does. “What time is it?”

“Seven. You have time.”

Enjolras blinks the sleep out of his eyes, takes in more of his room. Grantaire is wearing underwear (it's Enjolras's, Enjolras is pleased to note) and his hair is damp, so he clearly doesn't intend to have shower sex. He's still there, though, and he even made coffee, which means he wants to at least hang out. And he isn't hungover. It's odd to be with Grantaire in the morning when he's not some degree of hungover, even if for Grantaire most hangovers are mild enough to work through. He looks clean, looks soft against the off-white of Enjolras's sheets. 

“I'm going to shower,” Enjolras says. “Stay for breakfast?”

Grantaire nods, looks over at him, laughs. “I thought we were trying to solve our bruising problem.”

“What?”

Enjolras glances at the mirror on the door of closet and has to stifle the choked sound that tries to force its way out of his throat. Aside from the bruising across his shoulder and ribcage, which is fading to an ugly yellow now, there are new bruises on his hips and the sides of his ass, not to mention the chafing on his wrists.

“At least most of it won't be visible,” Enjolras says. “I can just wear longer sleeves, not a huge deal.”

“Hiding your forearms is a crime,” Grantaire says.

“One you've made uncomfortably necessary, unless I want my advisor to know exactly what I got up to last night.”

“She'd be into it. You going to tell me who you lost your virginity to?”

“It's kind of embarrassing,” Enjolras says.

“You can shower after. You _are_ pretty gross right now. Look, you still have some dried cum on your chin.”

“Is that _mine_? Christ.” 

“Don't try to change the subject.”

“I'm not. I just didn't think you needed to know who she was.”

“So she was ...”

“Just a random woman. Courfeyrac took me out before finals junior year of undergrad, said I was going to be tense and high strung forever if I didn't find a way to work out my kinks--”

Grantaire snorts. “He said it just like that?”

“Of course he did,” Enjolras says. “He's Courfeyrac. He probably knew I wanted someone to spank me, too.”

“So, what, Courfeyrac took you to some sex dungeon and--”

“Jesus, no. It was just a nightclub, this really cool one in Boston that's actually a found bookstore during the day--”

“He took you to a Marxist book nerd nightclub?”

“Yeah.”

“Of course he did.”

“I liked it,” Enjolras says defensively. 

“Of course you did. That's why Courfeyrac took you.”

“I know,” Enjolras says. “Anyway, her name was Sam, and I thought she was a boy until she took her clothes off.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. But she was into that, it was fine, and she was on top and she choked me while we kissed and spanked me while we fucked and it was good.”

“Jesus,” Grantaire says. “Go take a shower, you dirty slut.”

“I object to that--” Enjolras starts, but there's something in Grantaire's eyes that is queerly close to adoration and he has to look away. “You're right, I have to go.”

He showers quickly, wants to jack off but thinks about Grantaire in just the next room with his _mouth_ and his _fingers_ and decides against it, decides if he wants to get off he'll just ask Grantaire for it. So he has to get through the motions as quickly as possible so he can get back out to his bedroom, where Grantaire is waiting for him, now more fully dressed—he's adjusting his collar in Enjolras's mirror, and it's Enjolras's shirt because Grantaire got his shirt dirty when he was _rimming him_ , Jesus, and it looks better on Grantaire. Probably because Grantaire's left buttons open and is wearing it only partially tucked into his pants.

“You look clean,” Grantaire observes.

“I feel clean.”

“You didn't mention the choking.”

“What?”

“When you told me she spanked you. You didn't mention the choking.”

Enjolras's mouth goes dry. “Would you want—that's--I mean--”

Grantaire laughs, almost delightedly. “So you were into it?”

“I was _extremely_ into it.”

“Come here—I want to kiss you before you get dressed and ruin it.”

“Ruin what?”

“How you look in a towel.”

Enjolras obeys, kisses Grantaire so slowly it's almost platonic, except that Grantaire almost immediately starts palming his cock through the towel. Enjolras loses track of what he's trying to do and the kiss becomes suddenly messy, Grantaire's mouth wide open against his. Grantaire's other hand comes up to pull at Enjolras's hair, and then Grantaire stops kissing him for a moment to pull Enjolras's neck taut, and then he's kissing him there and Enjolras _whimpers_ at it, at Grantaire's open mouth sliding up his throat and then back down. Enjolras pushes his towel off almost angrily, thrusts against Grantaire's open palm.

But Grantaire, of course, doesn't cooperate. After giving Enjolras's cock a brief squeeze, he brings his hand up and wraps it against the back of Enjolras's neck. Enjolras shudders, thrusts against Grantaire's leg. He can feel Grantaire's erection through the thin fabric of his pants. He remembers that Grantaire is wearing Enjolras's boxers and thrusts harder, grinding his hips against Grantaire and trying not to whine until Grantaire's thumb brushes against his adam's apple. Enjolras shudders from the contact, from the heat of Grantaire's finger next to the cooling saliva on his neck, and then Grantaire presses down with his thumb, pulls harder on Enjolras's hair, and drags his lip up Enjolras's throat all at once. 

It's embarrassing how quickly Enjolras is going to come, so he pushes down Grantaire's pants in an effort to save them because even though he loves seeing Grantaire in his clothes, he's sure his pants would be ill-fitting on the curve of Grantaire's ass. His boxers only fit at all because they stretch, and Enjolras thinks it over and then pushes those down too. He grinds his cock furiously against Grantaire's as Grantaire continues fucking _torturing_ his throat, whines into Grantaire's hair when Grantaire's kissing turns into his usual combination of nibbling and licking and blowing. Enjolras wraps his hand around both of their cocks, jerking them simultaneously and wishing he could be fucked to reach for lube.

Grantaire, shockingly, comes first, into Enjolras's hand. He tightens his grip on Enjolras's throat and kisses his mouth again, immediately probing it with his tongue. Enjolras comes a moment later and manages to direct it away from Grantaire's clean clothes, but that means that most of it ends up on his chest.

“Fuck,” he says. “I have to shower again.”

Grantaire laughs. “Sorry.”

“No, I had it coming.”

“Literally.”

“God, you didn't just make that joke.”

Grantaire shrugs. “I need to leave before I make you later for your meeting than you already are.”

“Right.” Enjolras kisses him. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Grantaire smiles at him. It's an oddly content sort of smile, and contentment isn't something Enjolras has frequently seen on Grantaire's face. He finds that he likes it.

“I love you too, Apollo,” Grantaire says, and leaves.

* * *

It's odd to have an ABC meeting without Grantaire there. It's odd how different their relationship has gotten just in the few weeks since Grantaire, drunk and sloppy, kissed Enjolras and Enjolras, dizzy from years of want, kissed him back. Their entire demeanor toward one another changed after that, or at least Enjolras's demeanor changed because he stopped prioritizing everything above Grantaire.

Grantaire is still everything that he was before. He's still needlessly confrontational, overly skeptical, two parts cynic and one part pessimist disguised as realist with that odd dash of optimism that made him kiss Enjolras in the first place. He still argues relentlessly with Enjolras, still blows cigarette smoke in Enjolras's face when Enjolras says something he disagrees with, but—but still, it's different now.

Maybe it's different because Enjolras doesn't look at him and see something purposeless. Enjolras knows, can admit, that sometimes he overlooks people's humanity in favor of defending their freedom. He knows that when he thinks about people he does it in terms of cold categories: citizens, noncitizens, should-be-citizens, oppressors, the oppressed, useful, useless. He knows he sometimes needs someone to remind him that this isn't the case, and that's why he has Combeferre, who thinks of people as people, and Courfeyrac, who thinks of people as friends. 

So Grantaire didn't fit, at first, because he didn't care about the cause, sometimes outwardly disdained it, but—but he makes Enjolras think of himself as a person, drags out his humanity, makes him laugh. Teaches him pop culture references. Stocks Enjolras's wine cabinet.

So that's why, as Enjolras talks about the ABC's ongoing efforts to fight corn subsidies, he finds himself pausing at places where Grantaire would normally interject, say something Enjolras wouldn't even normally think of. A lot of it's bullshit, designed just to annoy Enjolras and undermine the entire point of the ABC, but a lot of it's right, too, like his point that if you let them choose, people won't always choose healthy food—they'll choose what's convenient, what's easy, what _tastes good_ —but that's it, isn't it, it's that they still get to _choose_ even if they choose wrong, and this is what Enjolras ends his rallying speech with that night. You can't trust the people to always make the right choices, but you still have to trust them to choose.

Enjolras steps off the chair he'd been standing on, sinks into it instead—a little gingerly, which he hopes no one notices—and lets Bahorel pour him a drink, because his head is buzzing uncomfortably with the possibility of change and yet its unattainability and he wants it to stop. 

“So we've come up with a proposal,” Courfeyrac says, sliding into the chair next to him.

“Great—nothing illegal? Have you looked at it, Bahorel?”

“I meant about Grantaire,” Courfeyrac says.

Oh. Right. “I'm not breaking up with Grantaire, abandoning his passed-out body in a ditch, forcing him to go to rehab, or--”

“That's not the proposal,” Combeferre says on Enjolras's other side. 

His voice is calm, steady, the way Combeferre always is, and Enjolras exhales, lets some of the tension melt out of him. He likes it better when Combeferre and Courfeyrac are both there. It feels right, the three of them all being there together, even when he's angry with them. Combeferre will end the evening with his usual call to action—less a rallying call and more a clever honing of the anger Enjolras sparked, and Courfeyrac will talk to people individually, the last reminder that to effect change they have to actively take part.

“What is it, then?”

“You insist that Grantaire isn't hitting you,” Combeferre says. “Fine. But we know too much about victims of domestic abuse and too much about _you_ to just take your word for it.”

“You think I'd keep silent about--”

“About something you perceived as weakness? Certainly.”

“There's one way to do it that we can see,” Courfeyrac says. “It was your idea, actually, even though I think you weren't being—uh—completely serious. Give us access to the security cameras in your apartment.”

“What?”

But it's clever, Enjolras has to give it that. He's had security cameras in his apartment for ages, ever since someone broke in and stole the laptop he kept all his plans on. He locked it remotely, and it was fine, but he's since been much more vigilant, keeping things under lock and key, installing security software only he has access to.

“It's easy. Look, Combeferre has his laptop, just log in and show us--”

“Fine,” Enjolras says. “Fine, but—I can't do it right now. I need to talk to Grantaire about it first.”

“Why?” Courfeyrac says, and Enjolras is surprised at the harshness of his voice.

But it's Barohel who answers for him, Bahorel who Enjolras forgot is sitting at their table.

“Because Grantaire's probably on video having sex,” he says, “and Enjolras wants to obtain his consent before showing all of you his naked ass.”

“Thank you, Bahorel,” Enjolras says. “It'd be kind of a _dick move_ , don't you think?” 

“You're right,” Combeferre says. “Of course you're right. See what Grantaire thinks and let us know.”

Enjolras is rising out of his seat, ready to go home and do damage control on probably-totally-wasted-by-now Grantaire, when Courfeyrac catches his arm, looks up at him through wide eyes.

“What?”

“It's just—you're our best friend,” Courfeyrac says. “And we're worried about you.”

Enjolras wrenches his arm away and tries not to feel bad at the wounded look on Courfeyrac's face. “I'd prefer it if you trusted me.”

He practically stomps the entire four blocks back to his apartment. He has to take a moment to wash his face, stare at himself in the mirror until the angry pounding in his head goes down, and drink a tall glass of water before he calls Grantaire.

“Is it over?” Grantaire says when he picks up instead of greeting him. His voice is just barely slurred the way it gets when he's had too much to drink and isn't trying to hide it.

“Yeah.” Enjolras can hear noise surrounding Grantaire, laughter and people talking. “Where are you?”

“Across the street.”

“What?”

“I was at that bar near the Musain because I wanted to meet up with you and someone invited me to a party and it's actually closer to your apartment so I went.” 

His speech is actually more off than Enjolras thought initially—it's got that high-pitched lilt behind it that it has when Grantaire is on something stronger than alcohol. It's been ages since Enjolras saw or heard Grantaire high, but this is definitely the end of that streak.

“Actually, I think the host is friends with Courfeyrac. Course she is, everyone's friends with Courfeyrac, only I think she knows Marius, too, and she keeps mentioning how much she likes your building, so I'm pretty sure she's slept with at least one of them, or possibly you? You haven't slept with anyone who lives across the street, have you? No, you're all about--”

There's a woman's voice very close to Grantaire, cutting him off, and Grantaire laughs into the phone, high pitched and wild.

“Grantaire, come over,” Enjolras says, and it comes out firmer than he expected but he thinks that's probably for the best.

“Not just yet, need to come down first, it's bizarre in here, like really hot? But not in a bad way, you know? You know like when it's August and you're in the desert and it's hot but you kind of like it because of the sun? That's the problem with New York, it's too far from the desert, you know? I mean, not that I prefer Phoenix, obviously, I hated Phoenix, but at least it wasn't ever humid, right? It's hot in a good way is what I'm saying, like it's dry and I'm sweating but it feels like the good kind of sweat, and plus I'm near the window which kind of cools the sweat off, and—oh.” There's a pause, and Grantaire says, “I have to go. I'll see you soon, okay?”

There's a moment where Enjolras just stands there, holding his silent phone against his ear in complete stillness, and he knows he probably looks ridiculous on the security cameras he's going to show Courfeyrac and Combeferre because he isn't moving, but it's like he's paralyzed. 

He starts listing the things he knows for sure: He knows Grantaire is in the apartment building across the street, or at least in _an_ apartment building across the street. He knows Grantaire is, in all likelihood, fine. He knows Grantaire has done things like this before and has come out of them physically all right, if not mentally. He knows Grantaire is not alone. He knows the host is friends with Courfeyrac, so she must be all right, except that _everyone_ is friends with Courfeyrac, and just because the host's all right doesn't mean everyone at her apartment is all right. He knows Grantaire can take care of himself. He knows that tomorrow Grantaire will wake up with the hangover from hell, and he knows he wants to be there when it happens, so Enjolras puts his shoes back on and calls Grantaire again.

“Sorry,” Grantaire says, voice high pitched into the phone but sort of muffled, like his mouth is pressed against it. “I know we had plans. It's my fault for missing them, I'm completely out of it, Bambi, I didn't mean to get so high, I just wanted a little because I thought it might make me happy, I mean I was already happy but I wanted to be happier, and I ran into Cosette earlier and even she and Marius think I'm hurting you, and now I'm just high and I had too much, I'm sorry, I'll be better tomorrow, I'll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Where are you?”

“Across the street, but you don't have to come over, you have work in the morning, it's not like--”

“It's Friday, Grantaire,” Enjolras interrupts. “What's the apartment number?”

“I don't know, it's across the street from you, it's loud I guess, I don't know, I'm sorry, I'll—”

Enjolras tries to see which apartment is the one with the party in it from the tiny window in his kitchen, but he can't tell.

“What floor are you on?”

“Not high,” Grantaire says. “The apartment, I mean, not me, I'm very high, but the apartment's not because we walked up, maybe three or four, I can't really remember. Don't come.”

Enjolras stops wrapping his scarf against his neck, freezes all over again. “Why not?”

“I'll see you tomorrow, okay?”

It only takes him a second to decide to ignore Grantaire's request. He all but sprints across the street, but it takes ten minutes of pretending to fumble around in his pocket for the doorman to finally come outside, look at him curiously.

“I'm so sorry,” Enjolras says, “but my friend's upstairs and I totally forgot what apartment number she is and I think I forgot my phone at her place. Let me in?”

“Of course,” the doorman says, like he's answering a request rather than taking an order even though people always listen to Enjolras when he puts on that voice. “You need me to look up your friend for you?”

“No, I remember where her apartment is, just not the number.” 

Enjolras flashes the doorman a smile and walks confidently to the elevator, which opens for him immediately.

He starts at the third floor. There's no sign of noise or a party anywhere, so he goes another floor up, and then another.

It turns out the party's actually on the seventh floor, which means that Grantaire must have already been high when he decided to come here or he's drunker than Enjolras initially thought.

He gets into the party easily. The guy who opens the door for him isn't wearing a shirt or pants, only very tight underwear and black boots, and Enjolras immediately wonders what kind of fucking party he's just wandered into.

Other people are in various stages of undress, but enough are fully clothed that Enjolras can buy that this isn't an orgy. He can't see Grantaire, but he's positive Grantaire's here somewhere. It's the kind of party Grantaire and Courfeyrac would definitely go to late on a Friday night, after drinking their ways through Chelsea's best bars and dancing their ways through Chelsea's best clubs. 

It's not that late yet, though—Courfeyrac is probably just leaving Musain now, and maybe he'll come here, but Enjolras doubts it'll be for another few hours. He wonders what kinds of people have wild parties at 9:30 pm on Friday nights in New York City and then figures it's probably the kinds of people he doesn't want to have very much to do with.

“Enjolras!”

He doesn't have time to react before Grantaire slams his entire body against him, drags his open mouth over Enjolras's lips, which part automatically.

“I told you not to come,” Grantaire says, half-clinging to Enjolras.

“You sounded like you were having way too much fun without me.” 

Enjolras takes a half-step away—Grantaire's shirt is gone (Enjolras remembers absently that it's actually _his_ shirt) and he has that manic sort of look in his eyes he used to get when he got high more often. His pupils are unnaturally wide, his mouth curved impossibly around his teeth.

“You shouldn't have come,” Grantaire says, but he's still making that terrifying smiley face. “I'm glad you did, though, because I want you to meet my friends!”

“No—Grantaire, we're leaving.”

Grantaire pouts. “Stay and party with me,” he says, and then he grins again. “Hear the music?” 

“Yeah, it's _blasting_ , how do you think I found you?”

Grantaire shrugs. “I knew you would, though, of course you did.”

“I walked up _a lot of stairs_ to get here, Grantaire--”

Grantaire kisses him again. “I'm sorry I did coke in the bathroom with Becca or Betsy or whatever but she was really pretty and I was really sad. Dance with me.”

He turns around without warning and starts grinding obscenely against Enjolras, who is baffled until he looks around, realizes that's how everyone else is dancing, too. Enjolras doesn't get it, has never gotten the grinding thing, not when he was in college and not when Courfeyrac makes him go clubbing and certainly not now, but Grantaire's ass rubbing against his groin is still scrambling his thoughts a little.

But Enjolras can manage that. He gets himself together despite desperately wanting to just stay still or maybe move a little against Grantaire, press a hand against Grantaire's front and let himself just _feel_ , but a high Grantaire is _not an okay Grantaire_ , so Enjolras pulls away.

“Fine,” Grantaire says. “Fine.” He turns around, kisses Enjolras's neck. “Why did you come?”

“I came to get you,” Enjolras says. “I didn't realize you were this bad.”

“I don't deserve you,” Grantaire says, and kisses the corner of Enjolras's mouth. “I don't deserve you, but I can't stop touching you.”

“Come home with me, then,” Enjolras says.

“Okay,” Grantaire agrees.

Enjolras reaches for Grantaire's hand and squeezes. He half-pulls him out of the apartment building into the early spring evening air. It's crisp on the back of Enjolras's neck, and he almost wants to stay outside, but one look at the still-shirtless Grantaire reminds him why he's here in the first place and he starts to cross the street when he collides unceremoniously with Courfeyrac.

“Oh—hi,” Courfeyrac says, looking from Grantaire to Enjolras and frowning. “Grantaire—how are you?”

“Excellent, my darling Courfeyrac,” Grantaire says, beaming at him. “Do you remember when we met Bethany at that party and she took us back to her place? She's just having another party and it is _spectacular_.”

“Yeah, I'm heading over there now,” Courfeyrac says. “Is everything okay? Not really your scene, is it, Enjolras?”

“Let's go, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, giving Grantaire's hand a tug. He ignores the pained expression on Courfeyrac's face, but he wonders why Courfeyrac is here so early, at the kind of party you go to end an evening rather than start one.

“Enjolras, wait--”

“Courfeyrac's going to a party _alone_ ,” Grantaire exclaims. “You know what that means, Enjolras? He's trying to get _laid_.”

“Is that what you were doing when you went to that party alone?”

“I wasn't alone! I was with Bethesda!”

“Her name's Marie,” Courfeyrac says.

But he doesn't correct anything else Grantaire said, which is worrying because Enjolras knows Courfeyrac, and he knows that when he seeks out anonymous sex it's usually because he's recently taken a blow to his confidence or to counteract his anxiety.

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras says before he can stop himself, and then decides that actually, he can stop himself, and instead of comforting his friend just says, “Have fun.”

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says again, but this time Enjolras leads Grantaire away and back to his apartment.

“Courfeyrac _loves_ you,” Grantaire says, stretching out the word, making it sound ugly. “So much that he hates me, any why wouldn't he, look what I've been doing to your beautiful body.”

“You seemed very into the hickeys and ass bruises, though,” Enjolras says, going to work undoing Grantaire's belt and pushing off his pants. 

“That was different. You liked those. I did them on purpose.” Grantaire's drug-addled tone of voice is fading. He sounds almost sleepy now, and though he's still standing up his eyes look hooded, like they're ready to close.

Enjolras folds Grantaire's pants and drapes them carefully over the back of a chair, figures he can stop by Grantaire's apartment in the morning to get him another pair if Grantaire is really grossed out by wearing them a third day in the row, which he probably won't be. 

“Let's go to bed,” Enjolras says.

“Okay,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras grasps Grantaire's hand again and doesn't let go until he's lying down next to Grantaire, who kisses him sloppily on the mouth and then rolls too far over and knocks Enjolras completely off the bed.

“Fuck,” Grantaire says. “Fuck, fuck, I'm so sorry, I can't believe--”

“Shut up, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, pushing himself back up and onto his bed. “That was the first time in a few days. That's progress, right?”

Grantaire doesn't look convinced, but he curls around Enjolras nonetheless, kisses his neck.

“I'm sorry I lost your shirt,” Grantaire says. His breath tickles the hair on the back of Enjolras's neck.

“We can go get it tomorrow.”

“I have to paint all day tomorrow.”

“I'll go get it, then.”

“Okay.” 

Grantaire's breathing evens out after that, and Enjolras stays up much later, flicking absently through his phone. He gets a drunk text from Courfeyrac, which isn't unusual, and then one from Combeferre, which is. 

He falls asleep, eventually, to an article on the Atlantic about the failure of pedagogy for very smart children, and when he wakes up Grantaire is gone.

* * *

Grantaire doesn't answer Enjolras the first four times Enjolras calls him, and Enjolras is just about ready to get dressed and ransack New York City for the pain in the ass he has so irresponsibly fallen in love with when Grantaire finally, finally picks up.

“Good morning, sun and stars,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras knows immediately that he's drunk.

“It's two p.m.,” Enjolras says.

“You're supposed to say, 'good morning, moon of my life,'” Grantaire says.

“What are you talking about?”

“We'll work on that later. I'm painting. Where are you?”

“What? I'm at home, where you left me.”

“Oh yeah. Uh—I'm sorry about that, you know, I didn't—I didn't intend to get high. If I hadn't seen Brittany at that bar and been in such a shitty mood--”

“Her name's Mary,” Enjolras says.

“You know her?”

“Courfeyrac told me.”

“Courfeyrac? How did he know?”

“We saw him last night when we left Mary's place.”

Grantaire doesn't say anything for a moment, but then apparently bounces back because he half-slurs at Enjolras, “Did we have fun at Bella's party?”

“You know that's not her name.”

“What can I say? I'm a drunk. I have trouble with names.”

“We were only there for like half an hour. You might've been there longer.”

“I don't remember much,” Grantaire admits. “You brought me home?”

There's an odd rush of heat in the pit of Enjolras's stomach at that. He's never thought of his apartment as anything other than his apartment, but he likes that Grantaire refers to it as home for him, too. 

“Let's have lunch,” Enjolras says.

“I'm working.”

“I'll bring you a sandwich.”

“Not from the Musain, please, Jesus I'm so sick of their dry ass bread.”

“Fine—is there somewhere place closer to your place?”

“Yeah, there's this deli that makes—hold on, I'll text you the address because then you won't be able to say you forgot where it was and that's why you're bringing me Musain food.”

“Okay,” Enjolras says, and he hates that he's grinning into the phone even though he's annoyed at Grantaire and worried about their friends and hasn't asked him about the security cameras yet. Or, well, he supposes he doesn't hate it. Not exactly, anyway.

He knocks on Grantaire's door an hour later, two sandwiches tucked into a crisp white paper bag.

“Jesus, you look so fucking hot in jeans,” Grantaire says when he opens the door, fisting a hand in the front of Enjolras's shirt and kissing him before he's even fully inside Grantaire's tiny apartment.

“Gonna drop the food,” Enjolras warns when Grantaire comes up for air, and Grantaire immediately backs away, seizes the bag.

“I'm starving,” he says. “I can't remember the last time I ate. All I know is that I really wish I was sleeping right now and I drank two pots of coffee.”

“Cocaine withdrawal?”

“It's the fucking worst,” Grantaire says. 

He sits down on top of his counter, opens the bag, chooses a sandwich and tosses the other to Enjolras.

“How's the painting going?”

“Not well.” 

Grantaire gestures behind him to the four nearly-blank canvases and the fifth one, which is just a blown up photograph of a tree, taking up the space Grantaire calls his studio but Enjolras thinks looks a bit more like a living room, what with the coffee table and the couches. Grantaire lights a cigarette, and Enjolras is a little disgusted at the mixing of eating and smoking but figures it's not surprising for a post-cocaine bender Grantaire.

“Why not?”

“Probably the withdrawal.”

“Oh.” Enjolras waits for Grantaire to say something, and when he doesn't decides it's better to just rip the bandaid off: “Courfeyrac and Combeferre suggested they watch my security camera footage to ensure you aren't hurting me deliberately.”

Grantaire ashes his cigarette carefully, and then without warning jams the entire cigarette into the ash tray so that it folds against itself.

“You showed it to them?” Grantaire says, laying his sandwich down on the counter.

“No. Bahorel said you had to consent to it first.”

Grantaire clenches and unclenches his fist. He cracks all the knuckles on his left hand, then his right. “Oh.”

“And I wouldn't show anyone video of you and me unless you wanted me to.”

Grantaire blinks. “Right, right, I didn't think--” He pauses, lights a new cigarette. “I didn't think it through, I just sort of. You know.”

It's quiet for a moment, and then Grantaire hops off the counter and contemplates the photograph of the tree. Then, cigarette still in his mouth, he tears into the photograph with a knife Enjolras hadn't realized he was holding.

“Grantaire--”

“Shut up,” Grantaire says, and it's then that Enjolras focuses, notices that Grantaire isn't just ripping mindlessly at the print. The cuts he makes are delicate, precise, reveal the dark room behind them.

“What are you doing?”

“[Cutting out the leaves](https://www.flickr.com/photos/clairity/13123546583/),” Grantaire says. “I wanted to paint trees, but it just seemed too basic, you know?”

Enjolras doesn't, but he watches Grantaire anyway, carefully carving leaves out of his photograph.

“So what does it mean?” Enjolras says.

“Didn't you take art history?”

“An intro class with a hundred undergrads. Hardly Henry McBride.”

“So no one's ever taught you that sometimes things don't mean anything?”

“So this means nothing? Doesn't sound like you.”

“It isn't,” Grantaire says, turning to him and grinning fleetingly before returning to his photograph. “It means a lot of things. It could be about the rejection of beauty, or maybe a seizing of control over the power of nature … or maybe a commentary on the falseness of reflected images, which is always really ironic metacommentary on art itself, because art is fragile but the things it represents aren't necessarily.”

“So this is Platonic art.”

Grantaire hums in response, and then without warning sighs and shoves the easel so hard it falls over onto his coffee table. He moves on to the blank canvas next to it, starts carving leaves into that too, and then sighs again and slams his knife down on his kitchen counter.

“This is the worst.”

“What?”

“Me,” Grantaire says, pouring himself a glass of whiskey—not a drink, or a shot, or even a bit on the rocks, an actual glass full of whiskey—and sipping it delicately. “So what are we doing about the security cameras?”

“Would you be okay with it?”

“What would it entail?”

“We can give it a week and then show them whatever we have. That way you're aware of it being shown to them before you're actually in them, so they won't see--” Enjolras stops, though he's sure Grantaire knows what he's referring to—Grantaire is publicly self-deprecating, even self-loathing, but the vulnerability that he sometimes lets out around Enjolras is for them and them alone.

“So our choices are between showing them the security camera footage, or--”

“Or you never showing up to the Musain again, probably, and me spending the rest of my life taking shit from Combeferre and Courfeyrac.”

“And you won't leave the ABC, of course, not for something like this.”

“Grantaire--”

“I didn't mean that,” Grantaire says quickly. “It just seems trivial, doesn't it? To lose your life's work because of a misunderstanding?”

“It isn't trivial. My best friends think the man I love is hurting me and don't trust either of us telling them that they're wrong. That's not trivial.”

Grantaire looks down at his whiskey and sighs. 

“Sure,” he says. “But then why--”

“Am I considering the cameras?” 

“Yeah.”

Enjolras thinks about it. He remembers his nails, chewed up into stubs from the anxiety that used to surround him like a cloud, threatening to suffocate him at any moment. He remembers Courfeyrac sitting down next to him on the plane to Boston after winter break freshman year, putting his head on Enjolras's shoulder, and saying something like, “You know, there's probably strangers' fecal matter all over your fingernails, so you should take them out of your mouth.” And so Enjolras stopped chewing his nails, because Courfeyrac's argument was an unbeatable one, and Courfeyrac became his friend. 

“Because I don't want to leave the ABC,” he said. “Because Courfeyrac and Combeferre are my best friends. Because they're all _your_ friends too, even if they aren't acting like it, and you deserve to get to punch all of them in the face for not believing you.”

“I don't think that would help my case,” Grantaire says dryly.

“No, probably not,” Enjolras says. “But it'd be satisfying.”

“Maybe.” 

“So what do you think? Should we do it?”

“I can't think of a better way,” Grantaire says.

“Me neither.”

“Let's do it, then.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. But now I need you to leave because I want to paint myself and I'll feel uncomfortable if you're here watching me.”

“I like watching you paint.”

"Let's go out for dinner," Grantaire says, turning back to his easels. "I need to work for a few more hours, but I really wanted to try out this place in Harlem and I haven't got any other friends at the moment, so—"

"Don't say that," Enjolras says. "Eponine's your friend."

"Eponine and I are birds of a feather, not friends. And I'm not even the same feather anymore. Or species of bird. Since you're apparently delusional, blind, deaf, stupid, and masochistic."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Okay," Enjolras says. "I'll call you for dinner?"

"Just meet me at 147th and St. Nick's," Grantaire says. "Around seven?"

"I'll see you then," Enjolras says, and when Grantaire doesn't move to kiss him goodbye, leaves the apartment himself.

* * *

Dinner is a quiet affair: Grantaire is dressed in jeans now, too. Their waitress flirts with Enjolras incessantly, even when Grantaire starts viciously feeling Enjolras up under the table. 

Other than that, it's mostly uneventful. Grantaire keeps pausing his meal to sketch things onto his notebook because he's still in his artist funk. Enjolras is mostly waiting for Grantaire to either pass out on his mussels or knock the entire table over, because Grantaire, true to form, is drunk.

"Ease up on the liquor," Enjolras says when the waitress brings Grantaire's third whiskey ("Neat, please, ice is for lesser drunks," Grantaire tells the waitress, who mostly ignores him in favor of batting her eyelashes at Enjolras). "You've been drinking all day."

"I've been pacing myself," Grantaire says, but he hasn't, which Enjolras knows because he watched Grantaire drink an entire glass of whiskey that afternoon.

It turns out Grantaire knows his body quite well after all, though, because when they get on the subway to go back to Enjolras's apartment, he seems almost sober, or at least as close to sober as he ever gets. He walks in a choreographed straight line, fiddles nervously with his Metrocard, and puts a cigarette in his mouth the moment they leave the restaurant.

Enjolras, by contrast, is half-hard from Grantaire's annoyed groping. As such, he seizes Grantaire by the front of his shirt the moment they get through Enjolras's front door. Grantaire provides no resistance, lets Enjolras kiss him sloppily against the wall next to the door.

"I want to fuck you," Enjolras breathes into Grantaire's ear.

"Yes," Grantaire says immediately.

"I want to do it here, fast, over the edge of the kitchen counter."

"Sounds unsanitary."

"I don't care."

Grantaire shoves his mouth back against Enjolras, runs his tongue along the edge of Enjolras's upper teeth before sliding it against the roof of Enjolras's mouth. His hands drop to Enjolras's pants, and he resumes his groping before Enjolras can react properly. 

"You're so ridiculous, fuck," Enjolras breathes into Grantaire's mouth.

"All I ever want to do anymore is touch you," Grantaire says, and then pulls suddenly away. "Wait, we're going to give the Amis video of us fucking?"

"They're going to have to deal. Is that okay?"

"That's excellent," Grantaire says, and undoes the front of Enjolras's pants.

He strokes Enjolras's cock until it stiffens in his hand, its head an angry red, and then Grantaire— _fucking_ Grantaire—sticks two fingers in himself, eyes sliding closed.

"Wait, what—let me—"

"You want to?" Grantaire breathes, and guides Enjolras's hand to his asshole. 

Enjolras slips three fingers in, waits until Grantaire's eyes roll back, and kisses him. It's a sloppy kiss, all contact and no finesse, but it's what Enjolras wants right now, Grantaire touching him everywhere possible. 

Grantaire tugs Enjolras's hand away and then bends over the counter, holding his ass cheeks apart obscenely. 

"Fuck," Enjolras says. "Fuck, Grantaire—"

"Stop talking and fuck me," Grantaire all-but growls, and Enjolras gets a condom on and more lube in his hand so quickly and mindlessly that he's not sure what happened to the condom wrapper until he glances down and sees it lying on the floor coated in KY.

He slides slowly into Grantiare, feeling Grantaire's muscles as they clench around him, before slowly relaxing to allow him in. Grantaire's as tight as ever, and Enjolras can barely contain himself. He bends forward to kiss the back of Grantaire's neck, and Grantaire laughs into the marble countertop.

"Get going, Apollo," he says, sounding dazed, and Enjolras does.

He hits prostate on his third thrust, and he knows because Grantaire yelps and his body tenses and he starts moving to meet Enjolras's thrusts. Enjolras feels like he's on fire—he wants Grantiare to spank him, to choke him, but Grantaire can't, so instead Enjolras says, "Can you—dirty talk or something? Please?"

Grantaire doesn't miss a beat: still practically banging against Enjolras on alternate thrusts, he starts hissing under his breath something that sounds like a list of names.

"I can't hear you," Enjolras says desperately.

"Joly," Grantaire says, louder. "Feuilly. Bahorel. Muschietta."

"What about them?"

"They're all going to see us fuck," Grantaire says. "They're going to see how much of a slut you are for me, and they're going to see you fucking me, and they're going to see me spanking you when you break the rules."

"Fuck," Enjolras says, but it comes out strangled, and he reaches around for Grantaire's cock before it's too late. "I'm going to—"

"They're going to see what a good little boy you are," Grantaire continues, and as Enjolras's hand slides down Grantaire's cock Grantaire's voice turns into a murmur: "My good boy," he says, and tenses at exactly the right moment, _squeezes_ , and lets Enjolras come first. 

Grantaire turns around the second Enjolras's cock is out of him, kisses the base of Enjolras's throat, and comes in a long streak, leaving semen all over Enjolras's chest.

"Standard, really," Enjolras says, and it sounds like he's babbling before he's even really started to talk.

"I'm going to lick you clean," Grantaire says decisively, and does, lapping his own come off Enjolras's chest, moving steadily down until his face is level with Enjolras's softening cock.

"I'm not thirteen, Grantaire, I can't—" Enjorlas starts, but he stops when he notices that Grantaire is _nuzzling_ his fucking _flaccid penis_. "What are you doing?"

"I'm thanking your dick for a job well done," Grantaire says, and kisses its base in about as friendly a way as a kiss on the base of a penis can be. "Thank you, penis."

"Oh god," Enjolras says. "I'm in love with a madman."

"I want to spank you in front of everyone," Grantaire says, stepping back into his boxers. "I mean not really in front of everyone but on tape. Hey, your dick just twitched."

"I'm going to start chafing," Enjolras says. 

"It's not my fault we're having really good sex. Oh, wait," Grantaire says, grinning wolfishly. "It's _exactly_ my fault."

"Entirely your fault," Enjolras says feverishly. He kisses the grin off Grantaire's mouth, guides him back to the couch with mostly nothing but very forceful kissing.

"I love you," Grantaire says, falling backwards into the cushions. "Let's watch a movie."

"What did you have in mind?"

"Have you seen _A Single Man_?"

"No."

"Well, we're going to," Grantaire says, putting it on and getting up to make coffee as the film starts.

He returns to the couch smelling comfortingly of the hazelnut blend he's fond of, and Enjolras slouches into him, feeling suddenly exhausted. The film's muted colors and darker tones serve to relax him well, as does Grantaire's voice hovering over most of the movie.

"It's all about the color story with Tom Ford," Grantaire is saying. "For him film is more than a medium for a story—it's a mode of design. That's why everyone's impeccably dressed. That's why Nicholas Hoult is blond and wearing white. Look at Colin Firth's suit there, see? And the filters all play into it—he's doing brilliant stuff with the colors in this shot, look."

Enjolras does look, every time Grantaire tells him to, and mostly he enjoys the movie, even if he does doze off before the ending. Grantaire wakes him up to make him go to his bed, and Enjolras appreciates it because of the crick he's already developing in his neck. He drifts in and out of sleep while Grantaire, wired on the coffee he made during the movie, hops around his apartment. Enjolras wakes up at one point to Grantaire sketching Enjolras's bedroom and he wakes up at another point to Grantaire spooning him, and eventually when he wakes up Grantaire is sound asleep and that means Enjolras can sleep, too.

* * *

Enjolras figures a day's worth of material probably isn't enough to convince anyone that he's perfectly safe, so he and Grantaire lie around his apartment all through the next day. Or, well, Enjolras is mostly lying around, idly catching up on his reading for class. Grantaire's spent the morning working—he's already gotten the photographs of Enjolras's bedroom printed, and now he's painting them in Enjolras's kitchen. It's nice, sitting here and working with Grantaire. Enjolras tells him this, and Grantaire laughs. It's a rich sound, the kind of laugh he only gets out of Grantaire when Grantaire is halfway to properly buzzed and genuinely happy. Enjolras is glad that Grantaire is happy. It surprises him how much he just wants Grantaire to be happy.

"That's because you love me for some reason, you stupid idiot," Grantaire says when Enjolras tells him this.

"I'm not stupid," Enjolras says. "And there are plenty of reasons to love you."

Grantaire doesn't respond to this, keeps painting in his corner until he eventually sets his brushes down and stands.

"I'm going to take a nap," Grantaire says. "Care to join?"

Enjolras takes his copy of Sovereign Virtue and follows Grantaire into the bedroom. He's surprised when Grantaire genuinely seems to just want to sleep, stretching out next to Enjolras like a cat and closing his eyes. He drifts off almost immediately, and lies there while Enjolras reads and scribbles notes in the margins of all the pages to prepare for lecture.

It's nice. It's nice, and Enjolras finds that he desperately wants this whole stupid thing resolved as quickly as possible so he can go back to enjoying his relationship with Grantaire and planning ABC meetings without having to think about _this_ , about responding to people who think the man he loves (the word weighs heavily on him, but it isn't an uncomfortable feeling—rather like a blanket in a cold room) is hitting him.

He texts Combeferre: _how long were you thinking of monitoring my security cams? because i'm sick of all this shit and grantaire's fine w showing you all stuff from before we decided to do it_.

Combeferre's response is brief: _couple of days is enough. private interactions. can judge based on that? r's down?_

_r's down. we can do it in courfeyrac's apt_

_ok_. A pause wherein no one says anything. Then, Combeferre, apologetic even when distilled into text message, says, _i'm sorry_.

Enjolras turns off his phone, puts down his book, and curls around the sleeping form of Grantaire.

* * *

When they wake up, the sun is just starting to set, leaving Enjolras's apartment in that odd space between light and dark that it gets around twilight. It's lovely, the colors of his bedroom half-illuminated, and Grantaire shifts next to him, smiles sleepily.

"I love this apartment," he says. "It's half the reason I'm sleeping with you."

"Please," Enjolras says. "We all know you're sleeping with me for my illegally perfect cheekbones."

"I hate it when you're facetious."

"Only because I'm so often correct."

Grantaire rolls his eyes. "You hungry?"

"Yes. Let's juts order food."

"I really like that sushi place we ordered from last time—"

"We can't eat their food, they pay their workers four dollars an hour." 

Grantaire rolls his eyes again. "Fine. Let's get food from the other sushi place, which surely treats its workers like kings and sources all its fish from some kind of fish haven where all the fish are treated like—"

"Okay, I see your point," Enjolras says. "Still, we shouldn't fund injustice where we know it's happening."

"The other place is more generous with their tuna anyway," Grantaire concedes. He does something on his phone before tossing it to Enjolras.

"I love the internet," Enjolras says. "Aside from making it possible for people to share ideas with people all over the planet and allowing people to discuss and plan protests and revolutions and overthrow their oppressive governments, it simplifies so many interactions between people and—"

"Okay, Al Gore," Grantaire says. "I don't think the revolutions were planned on the internet so much as reported on there. That's a myth. Look it up."

"Stop stealing my thunder, asshole."

Grantaire laughs directly into Enjolras's ear, presses a kiss to the skin beneath it. 

"Sorry," he says, but doesn't sound it. "Thought you'd like being corrected on your idealism."

"I don't," Enjolras says. "Idealism isn't _bad_ , Grantaire."

"Maybe, but sometimes it _is_ stupid."

"Are you calling me stupid?"

"You're the smartest person I know," Grantaire says, kissing the side of Enjolras's neck and reaching for his cock. "Look, I can feel you getting hard at that, you're such an egomaniac."

"You're such an asshole," Enjolras mutters, but Grantaire is right, he _is_ getting hard. 

"Or maybe you're getting hard just from me kissing your neck," Grantaire says. "Jesus, I've never seen someone who's so ready to be a slut _all the time_ , I just—"

"Says you," Enjolras says, shoving Grantaire's hand away and climbing on top of him.

"Yeah, but I'm just responding to your sluttiness—I'm not like y--" 

He stops talking, but only because Enjolras has pressed a hand against his mouth. 

"Let me finish my sushi order," Enjolras says. "Did you already put in what you want?"

Grantaire licks his palm, but Enjolras refuses to move his hand away.

"One lick for yes, no licks for no."

Grantaire licks his palm again.

"Excellent. Do you think I should get salmon sashimi? I think I'd rather have the maki, but—"

Grantaire licks his palm irritably. 

"Oh, you probably got that, huh? Okay, I'm just getting this chef's choice and we'll leave it up to him, does that—"

Grantaire bucks against him quite suddenly, which means Enjolras, straddling him, is only getting harder.

"Okay, fuck it, I'm just going to orde--mmf!"

Grantaire moves so that he's on top now, sending Enjolras crashing down against his bed. Grantaire kisses Enjolras's throat, sucks, bites, licks, blows lightly.

"Fuck," Enjolras says, and it comes out more like a moan. "You still have to put the order through, I—"

"My bad," Grantaire says. 

He grabs his phone, taps away at it for a second, then tosses it carelessly on Enjolras's nightstand and drops lower down Enjolras's neck. He scrapes his teeth along Enjolras's collarbone and pushes up Enjolras t-shirt so that it's up around his arms and neck, forcing Enjolras's arms up and covering a good amount of his face.

"That okay?"

"Yeah, just—keep going," Enjolras says, and then before he can stop himself adds, "Please."

Grantaire chuckles, but he keeps kissing, sucking, biting, licking, blowing down Enjolras's chest. He reaches up with one hand and tweaks Enjolras's left nipple, and at Enjolras's soft groan he takes the other nipple in his mouth, licks slowly around it before biting down gently. He switches off between the nipples until they're both hard little buds, and then continues his path down Enjolras's chest. Enjolras at this point is basically unable to move, definitely unable to see most of what Grantaire's doing except through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, and it's just making him harder. He wants to thrust against Grantaire's stomach, but he knows it'll just make Grantaire tease him harder because he's such a fucking _asshole_. 

Grantaire gets to his pants at last, pushes down the sweatpants Enjolras threw on this morning with irreverent ease and kisses the base of Enjolras's cock.

"Can I just say? This is my favorite cock I've ever seen," Grantaire says. "In porn, in real life, anywhere, I just—"

"Get on with it, Christ," Enjolras says.

"I thought it was _my_ job to tell _you_ what to do," Grantaire says.

Fuck.

"Turn over."

Enjolras does.

Grantaire's hand makes contact with Enjolras's ass a moment later. It's not a hard slap, but it stings nonetheless, and it's more the shame of it that has Enjolras blushing and getting somehow even harder. He tries not to hump his bed, but it's difficult, when Grantaire's got him lying on his stomach with a t-shirt up around his head making it impossible for him to see and difficult for him to move his arms. 

"Keep count."

"One," Enjolras says, and is unsurprised to hear his voice is hoarse and still somehow squeaky. 

Grantaire spanks him again.

"Two."

"We're on camera doing this," Grantaire says, his authoritative voice back in place. "All of our friends are going to see this."

His hand comes down on Enjolras's left ass cheek again. "Three."

"Are you okay with that?"

"Four—yes, yes, I—five."

"Stop humping the bed. Control yourself, you fucking slut."

"Six—sorry, sorry—seven. Eight."

Grantaire rubs Enjolras's ass where he's been hitting it and covers most of Enjolras's body with his. He kisses the back of Enjolras's neck.

"You can turn back over," he says softly.

Enjolras does.

"Can I just blow you in peace now?"

"Definitely." 

Grantaire returns to Enjolras's cock, licks it from tip to base, drops lower to Enjolras's balls. He kisses Enjolras's balls at their base and then licks them, too, before taking them in his hand and squeezing gently. Enjolras groans at Grantaire's fingers, ever deft and ever clever, so teasing they're almost cruel. 

Grantaire leaves his fingers there, wraps his lips around the head of Enjolras's cock, and licks the tip with his always-eager tongue. Enjolras shivers, wishes he could see what Grantaire looks like right now—his pupils are probably blown, his lips probably swollen. Enjolras imagines him looking up through long lashes and somehow finding a way to smirk around Enjolras's cock because that's what Grantaire _does_ , he smirks around Enjolras, and at the thought Enjolras's hips rise and he thrusts involuntarily into Grantaire's mouth. 

Grantaire takes it as a cue to move faster, and he does, lets go of Enjolras's balls and wraps his hand around Enjolras's cock instead, moving his hand in time with his mouth. His other hand sneaks around to probe Enjolras's ass. There's a moment of stillness and then Grantaire's finger, slick with lube, slips inside Enjolras's asshole, and Enjolras can't stop himself from moaning loudly against the fabric of his t-shirt.

"Do you want to come?" Grantaire says, barely moving his mouth off Enjolras's cock enough to be comprehensible. 

"Yes," Enjolras says before he can stop himself. "Yes, yes, I, yes—"

Grantaire needs no more motivation: he adds another finger to Enjolras's asshole and pushes up just as Enjolras's cock hits the back of Grantaire's throat. 

Enjolras shudders violently enough that Grantaire gets a little bit shaken out of his asshole, which Enjolras wants to move to fix but can't because he can't see anything and he feels dizzy and backwards and so, _so_ turned on, and then he comes into Grantaire's mouth. He can't resist seeing that, though, and he pushes his shirt off the rest of the way in time to see Grantaire positioned between Enjolras's legs, mouth half-open and full of Enjolras's come. 

"Get—" Enjolras says, and the doorbell goes off.

"Fuck," Grantaire says. "I forgot the sushi."

He still hasn't swallowed, and Enjolras wants to moan out loud.

"Let him up," Enjolras says. "I can't—I can't move."

"I'm _hard_ ," Grantaire protests, but Enjolras merely pokes him with his softening cock. 

Grantaire rolls his eyes. "Are you twelve?"

"When would a twelve year old ever be in the position to do that?"

"Our childhoods were clearly very, very different."

"Buzz him up!"

"Okay, okay, fine."

Grantaire doesn't bother to hide his erection when he gets up. He's wearing a pair of Enjolras's sweatpants that stretch obscenely over his ass and his cock is there and obviously hard against the gray fabric. Enjolras is tired and honestly thinks he could fall back asleep now if he wanted to but he sees Grantaire's hard cock and wants it _now_. He thinks he actually whines a little because Grantaire looks at him questioningly through the open door as he buzzes the delivery guy up.

"Maybe he'll be down for a threesome," Grantaire says. His hair is surprisingly unmussed for someone who's just given Enjolras a very dirty blow job, and Enjolras reaches for him before he can stop himself and pulls his hands through it. Enjolras kisses him slowly, sweetly, and doesn't separate from him until the delivery man knocks on his front door.

Grantaire goes to the door and must have some kind of conversation with the delivery man because he starts laughing, and if Enjolras listens he can hear the other guy laughing, too. They're there for longer than Enjolras expects, and then Grantaire comes back with a brown bag.

"Living room?" Grantaire asks.

"Mm," Enjolras mumbles in response. "Food's distracted you from the matter at hand, I see."

"Food and the possibility of drink. And the delivery man making fun of me."

"What'd he say?"

"He said I must really like fish."

"Clever."

"As are all delivery men," Grantaire says, setting the paper bag down on Enjolras's coffee table and tugging Enjolras down on the couch next to him. "I can't even remember what I ordered, Jesus."

"You like my dick way too much."

"That's true. How did you feel about the shirt covering your eyes?"

"Painfully turned on," Enjolras admits. 

"Literally painfully?"

"I was sort of dizzy. Too much sensory deprivation combined with too many senses. I liked it, though."

"Interesting."

"Is it?"

"I don't know, I've never been blindfolded. And I've never asked anyone I've blindfolded."

Grantaire smiles at Enjolras, reaches over to kiss him. Enjolras remembers again why he loves Grantaire: when he smiles at Enjolras he looks like he's admiring the sun, like it's too beautiful to resist looking at even if it's blinding. Enjolras wonders again if that means he's an egomaniac and decides it doesn't matter if he is.

"I can't tell if you taste like soy sauce or semen."

"It's definitely semen," Grantaire says. "Your semen. You should know what your semen tastes like, Enjolras."

“You're babbling.”

“I'm trying to pick between horny and hungry and my stomach is winning but god I'm just so--”

Enjolras kisses him again to shut him up and sticks a hand down his pants. Grantaire's kissing immediately becomes more frantic—he half-climbs on top of Enjolras, who keeps a hand wrapped around Grantaire's cock and runs a finger back and forth along the ridge above the head as Grantaire's mouth opens against his. Enjolras's hand job gets less rhythmic as Grantaire climbs more and more on top of him—he switches between stroking the shaft and rubbing at the ridge until Grantaire, who is now just a blubbering mess half-straddling him, comes all over Enjolras's hand and the inside of his pants. 

“Fuck,” Grantaire breathes against the side of Enjolras's chin. “You're too much, Jesus Christ my dick can't handle this.”

“We should use more lube in the future. Maybe we can try flavored. Although what's the point, right, I never understood, do you understand, I—”

“Now you're babbling.”

“I'm _starving_.”

“Okay,” Grantaire says. “Okay. Miso or salad?”

“Miso.”

Enjolras and Grantaire eat in semi-silence, interrupted only when Enjolras turns on the TV and flicks through channels until Grantaire stops him on an episode of Keeping up with the Kardashians.

"Seriously?" Enjolras says.

"It's entertaining, look, it's like human nature under a microscope."

"But it's all constructed, it's not—it isn't exactly _reality_."

"But it's a constructed version of what they think human nature looks like. It's _fascinating_."

"If you tell anyone I watched this—"

Grantaire cuts him off with a swift kiss. This time, Enjolras is sure he tastes like soy sauce. 

* * *

Courfeyrac and Combeferre are sitting together at Courfeyrac and Marius's apartment when Enjolras goes down there Monday evening. Grantaire's upstairs in his apartment, and Marius is out with Cosette, so they have the place to themselves and Enjolras feels secure that they won't be interrupted. 

"Grantaire's definitely okay with this?" Combeferre says.

"Definitely," Enjolras says. There's a pounding sensation behind his eyes that it takes him a second to realize is his pulse quickening. "If anything in the video makes you feel uncomfortable, feel free to—uh—just fast forward or whatever."

Combeferre frowns. "You didn't—uh—get intimate on camera, did you?"

Courfeyrac snorts. "Of course they didn't _get intimate_ on camera, Enjolras wouldn't even take his shirt off in front of me until we'd shared a room for a whole semester." There's a beat, and then Courfeyrac looks up at Enjolras in something resembling shock. "Wait, you _didn't_ , right?"

Enjolras grins at him, showing as many of his teeth as possible. It must have the disturbing sort of effect he's after, because Courfeyrac blanches.

"Are you sure you're okay with us watching this?"

"If it's the only way for you to accept that Grantaire _isn't hitting me_ , then I'm happy to show you whatever you'd like to see."

"Fine."

Combeferre presses play on his laptop, and they watch through the tapes. There's video of Enjolras just wandering his apartment, video of him reading and making coffee and watching the news (once or twice, he throws a pillow at the television and Courfeyrac remarks, "That's why they call them throw pillows," and laughs when Combeferre shoves him). All of that is standard—it's stuff Courfeyrac saw him do when they were roommates in college, stuff Combeferre saw him do when they were best friends in high school.

There's a lot of deliberate nudity on the tapes thanks to Grantaire's initial mention of exhibitionism, which obviously put a lot of only slightly disturbing ideas in Enjolras's head. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are carefully quiet at that. 

There's a lot of video of Grantaire and Enjolras having sex. A _lot_. Enough that, after the third blow job Enjolras receives on tape, Combeferre says, "Jesus, how do you have so much stamina?"

"Years of celibacy," Courfeyrac says, and this time it's Enjolras who shoves him.

They get uncomfortable at the kinky sex, which is unsurprising. Or at least, Combeferre averts his eyes, only glancing up when Courfeyrac makes a noise halfway between delight and disgust.

"This is gross," Courfeyrac says. "I really don't like watching—what was that?"

"What?"

"Rewind. See, that!"

It's video of Grantaire drunkenly falling on top of Enjolras and then, when he rights himself, planting his foot in Enjolras's ribcage.

"I told you. He's a clumsy drunk."

“Wait, is he _choking_ you there?”

“I wanted him to.”

“Is that why you've been wearing that stupid red scarf all the time lately?”

"No, but it helps," Enjolras says, grinning again. It feels more like a grimace than a smile, and it's clear that Combeferre and Courfeyrac feel the same.

He looks back down at the video, which has reached Friday evening now. Courfeyrac fastforwards through the empty apartment. They watch Grantaire knock Enjolras off the bed, then watch Grantaire apologize as Enjolras gets back on the bed. They watch the two of them fall asleep—Grantaire first, sinking into the restless sleep of someone who still has cocaine in his system, and then Enjolras, after a long time of absently playing with his phone. Courfeyrac fastforwards through the sleeping, too, and only plays it at normal speed again when Grantaire shifts away from Enjolras. The timestamp reads 4:30 a.m., and Grantaire kisses the back of Enjolras's neck, straightens the covers over him, and leaves.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac are dead silent. Courfeyrac keeps fastforwarding until they reach Saturday night, when Grantaire and Enjolras have sex that Enjolras remembers includes a lot of Grantaire whispering desperately. He's grateful they don't have the sound, but it's almost worse like this, with Grantaire's eyes wide open and rolling back in his head and staring up at the ceiling as Enjolras fucks him. Courfeyrac fastforwards through that, too.

"I'm sorry, we should stop," Combeferre says at last. "This was wrong. It's an invasion of your privacy and I—"

He stops at the sight of Grantaire moving around while Enjolras naps. He's just sitting up for a lot of it, watching Enjolras at first and then sketching something that Enjolras knows must be the drawing of Enjolras's bed that Grantaire's putting in his series of sketches for his show.

Courfeyrac closes the laptop before Combeferre can. "I'm sorry," he says. "This was my idea and it was a terrible one and I'm sorry."

Enjolras leans back in his seat, trying not to look smug.

"You should have trusted me."

"And we didn't, and that was wrong, but you have to understand that it looked bad, it looked _really_ bad, and we couldn't just take your word for it. You can understand that, can't you?" Combeferre says, almost pleading.

Enjolras sighs. "It's not just that you didn't trust me. It's that you didn't trust Grantaire."

"He's _Grantaire_ , though, he's drunk all the time and a lot of the time he's angry, too!"

"That doesn't mean he's prone to domestic abuse."

"I'm sorry," Combeferre says, looking defeated.

"It's not me you should be apologizing to."

"Is he in your apartment?"

"Yeah, but I think the whole ABC deserves to know it's been totally wrong, don't you?"

"That's petty of you."

"It really isn't," Enjolras says. "I don't see a better way to ensure that everyone knows they were wrong."

"Fine," Courfeyrac says. 

“You're right,” Combeferre says.

They make quick plans, and then Enjolras declines an invitation to go out to dinner in favor of returning to Grantaire.

* * *

They decide to do it at the next ABC meeting.

Enjolras convinces Grantaire to come over the phone. He's still at school, hiding out in the cubby hole between the entrance of the library and the Coca Cola vending machine.

"Can I ask you a favor?" he says.

Grantaire's response is immediate: "Anything."

Grantaire's voice has that desperate sort of adoration it takes on when he's been drinking while already in a bad place mentally. Enjolras knows it's a voice reserved specifically for him, which only makes him feel worse, but he closes his eyes and speaks in a careful, clipped tone through only partially gritted teeth.

"Come to the ABC meeting tonight."

"You're heartless." 

Still that desperate adoration, but this time tainted with that brand of venom that is completely unique to Grantaire at this particular state of drunkenness.

"Grantaire—"

"I knew you'd burn me if I got too close. But I did it anyway. I always knew you were heartless, but I didn't think you'd be this _mean_ , trick me—"

"Grantaire, I'm not trying to trick you,” Enjolras says, a little warily, a little carefully, because Grantaire is both plastered and upset.

"You already have."

"Grantaire—"

"I ran into Jean Prouvaire today and he completely ignored me," Grantaire says. "I asked him what he thought of my painting and he looked at me like I'd poisoned his mother."

"I know," Enjolras says. "I know—it's awful, I know it is, but we're going to resolve it, just come to the ABC tonight."

"Why would I want to spend any more of my time with a dozen people who think I'm capable of—"

"Just," Enjolras says. "I've talked to them. I have. Courfeyrac and Combeferre know the truth."

"But the others don't."

"It's not the same without you, honestly."

"It's probably better without me."

"R," Enjolras says, because he doesn't know what else to say. "Please?"

Grantaire sighs heavily. "Thank god that place is a bar."

"Well—just don't pregame too hard, okay?"

"Do you mean that in a 'because you're too self destructive, Grantaire, and I hate to see you hurt yourself' way, or in a 'let's make an okay impression, Grantaire' way?" Grantaire asks, but he sounds more like himself again.

"Which way would make you more likely to listen?"

"Neither, probably."

"Then neither," Enjolras says. "I'll see you tonight, yeah? And then I'll buy you a late dinner someplace that isn't the Musain."

" _That_ , my dear, is a reason not to pregame too hard."

"Don't call me your dear. That's gross."

"I'll see you tonight, Bambi."

"Wait, was that a pun?" Enjolras says, but Grantaire has already hung up.

* * *

"Before we start," Enjolras says, and Combeferre looks at him sharply. He feels a combination of triumphant and guilty at the surprise—they'd planned on doing it after the meeting, but Enjolras wants it to happen now, while everyone is still there. "Combeferre and Courfeyrac are going to give you all a brief prelude."

"Right," Courfeyrac says, clearly not surprised at all. "So—as you all know we've had some—uh—issues with Grantaire and Enjolras's relationship recently."

Grantaire's head shoots up at this, and Enjolras feels an odd pride in the pit of his stomach as Grantaire looks cautiously toward him. The word _mine_ doesn't quite fit, but it's close enough.

"Courfeyrac and I have, quite literally, reviewed the tapes," Combeferre says. "And we've determined that we were all completely incorrect. Grantaire isn't hitting Enjolras. Enjolras's bruises are genuinely from Grantaire being an extremely clumsy drunk."

"And, of course, strictly consensual play," Courfeyrac adds, which makes everyone snicker before they look guiltily toward Grantaire.

"Anyway, we all owe Grantaire and Enjolras an apology," Combeferre says. 

"So, on my count—one, two—"

The Musain breaks out in a slightly mistimed chorus of some variation of "I'm sorry, Grantaire." Joly grips Grantaire's shoulder from behind him, and Jehan gives him a hug, and Enjolras sees Bossuet trip over his chair in an effort to get over to Grantaire.

Grantaire is crimson, absolutely tomato red, and he's clenching both fists in what Enjolras is sure is an effort to not down all of his whiskey in one gulp.

"That's about enough, I think," Enjolras says. "Anyway—on the recent influx of death row inmates in the United States—"

It takes a while for the Musain to settle down, but when it does, Grantaire looks up at him gratefully, lip quirked up in something resembling a smile. For Enjolras, that's enough.

* * *

"Get in bed," Grantaire says.

And Enjolras does, because Enjolras is exhausted, is absolutely bone-tired, and he barely knows why. He thinks it might have something to do with the ABC spending most of the evening desperately apologizing to Grantaire, which involved a lot of drinks-buying and eventually a good amount of dancing and small talking, three things Enjolras usually wants nothing to do with. 

Grantaire seemed happy, though, which means Enjolras is happy, and he tugs at Grantaire's hand as Grantaire sits down on the bed next to him.

"I love ordering you around," Grantaire says, half-joking, and Enjolras feels a little ridiculous because he starts getting hard almost immediately at that.

"Oops," Enjolras says.

Grantaire laughs. "Jesus, you're _such_ a slut for me." 

"It goes both ways," Enjolras says.

"That's true," Grantaire says. 

He has a grasp on Enjolras's cock before Enjolras even realizes what's happening, sliding his hand up and down quickly, roughly until Enjolras is painfully hard. Grantaire starts grinding his own quickly hardening cock against Enjolras's thigh as he licks and nibbles at Enjolras's nipples and then gets a hand around Enjolras's throat. It's almost too much sensation for Enjolras, the feel of Grantaire's cock throbbing against his left thigh and his nipple in Grantaire's mouth and his cock in Grantaire's right hand and his neck in Grantaire's left hand. Grantaire puts just enough pressure on Enjolras's throat that breathing gets difficult, which Enjolras shouldn't like but _does_ , he likes it _so much_ , likes the faintness that comes along with it. The combination of feeling is overwhelming in the best way, and he's sure this is going to be over quickly. He wants to ask how Grantaire can do so much shit at once, especially considering sometimes he's barely even functional on one level, but Grantaire's grip on his throat prevents that.

And then Grantaire kisses him, and it prevents him from asking anything anyway, and the multitasking only gets more incredible as Grantaire continues to hump his leg unabashedly while giving him the sloppiest handjob of his life. 

"You're such a lazy slut, Jesus," Grantaire says, all breath against Enjolras's lip, and in protest Enjolras reaches for and gets hold of Grantaire's cock. It must take Grantaire by surprise because he comes quickly, letting out a choked groan that makes Enjolras come immediately, too.

In the afterglow, Enjolras is still thinking feverishly about Grantaire's ability to make him feel a hundred things at once. He supposes it shouldn't be surprising, because he's seen Grantaire juggle a paintbrush, a cigarette, and a coffee mug full of whiskey on many an occasion. Maybe he's just good at multitasking, really good. He's better than a seventeen year old trying to get into an Ivy League school, and Enjolras would know because that's what Combeferre was like in high school.

"I am good at multitasking," Grantaire says into the soft flesh at the base of Enjolras's neck. His voice has taken on a sleepy tone. He sounds soft, almost ethereal, vulnerable in a way Enjolras hasn't heard before, and Enjolras can't resist the feeling bubbling up inside him, which he has come almost despite himself to understand as love.

"I didn't realize I'd said that out loud."

"You're a babbler," Grantaire says in that same sleepy tone, and he rolls over onto the pillow next to Enjolras's. "I don't know what I'd do without you," he says, and it's so honest it's almost brutal, except that the softness of Grantaire's voice melts into Enjolras's bones.

"I love you," Enjolras says.

"Yeah," Grantaire says, smiling sleepily. He entwines his hand with Enjolras's and closes his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment it makes me happy and I don't have a lot of joy in my life.


End file.
